


The Philadelphia Stony

by juniperhoot



Series: The Long Balls Trilogy-verse [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Biting, Blowjobs, Civil War? What Civil War?, Defensive Steve Rogers, F/M, Jealous Tony Stark, M/M, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Oral Sex, Patriotism and sex, Scratching, Sexytimes, Someone has discovered Guy Fieri, Steve Has Bucky Issues, Stony - Freeform, Three Wolf Buck, Tony Has Trust Issues, Who doesn't love Glenn Miller?, alcohol is not a great choice when you're upset, beets are always evil, conflict is horrible okay?, everybody has issues, references to past homophobia, tempers flare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-08-17 07:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8136185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniperhoot/pseuds/juniperhoot
Summary: It's autumn in Philadelphia. After a few years of dating Steve Rogers, Tony's ready to pop the question, if he can just find the right moment. Will ghosts of the past threaten the happiness of their October holiday and future together?





	1. I'm Getting Sentimental Over You

“Autumn in Philadelphia is really something.” Tony Stark was behind the wheel of one of his prized Audis, navigating the city’s history-rich Washington Square neighborhood. Trees bedecked in gold and crimson extend benevolent, gilded limbs over cobblestone streets, ramping up the quaintness factor of the city. Tony pointed out a brilliant orange maple tree with an almost resentful note of appreciation in his voice. “With all that going on, you’d think this place would be hopelessly twee but... somehow, Philly manages to pull it off. Must be all that brotherly love. And patriotism.”

In the passenger seat, Steve Rogers gazed out appreciatively at the historical landmarks they passed. He was relaxed and happy, listening to Tony’s endless chatter. This little vacation was a welcome surprise, and necessary break from several months of training exercises with some of the younger members of the Avengers team. Steve enjoyed the work, but the biggest reason for that was in the driver’s seat. Making fun of him.

“You’re usually at what, an eight or nine, in terms of patriotic fervor? What would you say if I were to tell you we’re mere blocks from Independence Hall?” Tony peered over the rim of his sunglasses with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Should you notice your patriotism - or anything else - rising, you’ll let me know, right?”

The car pulled up outside a tall, pale Art Deco building, set in the midst of an eclectic mix of historic houses and newer construction. A doorman approached the car. “Mr. Stark, it’s good to see you again, sir. We’ve made everything ready for your stay.”

Tony tossed his car keys to the doorman, and slipped his arm around Steve’s waist. “C’mon, I want to show you my home away from home.”

The lines and details of the tower’s Jazz Age exterior blended into the historic neighborhood, and continued into the lobby. Once home to advertising greats of the early 20th century, its vaulted ceilings, walls, and floors were natural stone, carved and accented with polished wood and shining metal. Stylized gilded plaques depicted the magic art of storytelling through the ages, from candle-lit efforts with scrolls and quills, to bookbinders crafting volumes, on through early twentieth-century typewriters.

A bank of elevators beckoned, with one at the end designated for private, express service to the penthouse. A quick examination of the golden panels on this set of doors made it evident to the trained eye they were a more recent addition, although they were exquisitely rendered to blend in with the aesthetic of the rest of the building. Rather than continuing the theme of literary exploits, these doors paid tribute to scientific minds, from Isaac Newton holding an apple and a prism with beams of light streaming through it, to Nikola Tesla looming beatifically over a Tesla coil, to-

“Is that... Howard? There in the goggles?”

Tony smirked and gave a slight nod as they stepped into the elevator. “Still not sure if I did that out of spite or sentimentality.”

The doors opened onto a penthouse that was pure Tony Stark. Sleek and modern, outfitted with gadgets and patented Stark Industries tech, the interior of the upper portion of the building had been converted into a smaller-scale version of Avengers Tower. Tony gave a brief tour of the place (“those stairs lead down to a lab… there’s a kitchen… a very, very comfortable bed in the room at the end of this hall... you know, in case you get tired…”). They entered a spacious sitting room, with a glossy, black grand piano in one corner, a well-appointed bar, and a fireplace at the other end of the room. Dark leather chairs and sofas clustered together to create conversation nooks. Steve headed for one of the many floor-to-ceiling windows and surveyed the city below. “How did I not know you had a place here?”

“I don’t tell anyone about it. Or haven’t, until now.”

Tony joined Steve at the window. In the late morning sun, the inviting cerulean of Steve’s eyes seemed to exert a disarming effect on Tony. He’d lost count of the number of times he thought he’d seen Steve at his most staggeringly beautiful. The first moment he saw (and clashed with) him in person… or when Tony was Hulked back to life after a close call with a warhead intended for the Chitauri, greeted by Steve’s filthy, grief-stricken, relieved, rejoicing face... their first date, when Steve’s eyes were so serious and so revealing as he sketched Tony... that night when he was so helpless with his bow tie, watching with a trusting smile as Tony tied it for him... Steve’s last birthday, when they drove out to watch the fireworks but ended up making out on the hood of the car because Tony couldn’t stop staring at the curve of Steve’s lips in his perfect profile… yet somehow, a moment like this could still come along, out of nowhere, stunning him all over again. Standing there, basking in the light, with that ridiculous swoop of honey-colored hair framing his smiling features, batting the longest lashes on any human, ever in the history of the world, as if to remind Tony that he should be eternally grateful for the privilege of loving Steve Rogers.

“When I was a teenager, I went through a very… difficult phase. Technically, I’m still in it, I suppose.” Tony gestured vaguely at the penthouse around them. “When I was about fifteen, Howard caught me _in flagrante delicto_ with a very attractive pool boy we’d hired for the summer.”

Steve winced. His parents had died with no idea their son had little to no interest in women. He wondered whether they’d have disowned him (or worse).

“He had a great head of hair... thick, blond, feathered… think James Spader, Pretty in Pink, mid-80s-ish? You haven’t seen it, have you? Forget it. The thing that pissed me off? I’d been caught before with one or three of our maids. And that didn’t seem to bother Howard. At all.” Tony shrugged off his jacket and tossed it in the general direction of a chair, scowling at the jacket as it landed on the floor in a crumpled heap. With a disappointed shake of his head, he added, “Naturally, I accused him of hypocrisy, and suggested that the way he constantly talked about your perfection didn’t strike me as an entirely heterosexual thing, which… in retrospect, probably wasn’t helpful.”

“Tone...”

“I suppose you never said anything stupid at fifteen? Don’t answer that. Anyway. I stole one of his cars, and just… drove. I ended up here.”

Steve slipped an arm around Tony’s shoulders, gently hugging him.

“I parked over there, on the other side of the park, and wandered around the neighborhood. I saw lots of guys like me, just trying to live their lives and love who they loved. It gave me hope. I decided that some day, I was going to buy property here.” With a little shrug, Tony added in a low voice, “This is my haven. When I need to remember what’s important to me, I come here, and sort things out.”

Steve rested his cheek on Tony’s hair, inhaling the scent of what he assumed were outrageously expensive hair products, mingled with the warm notes of Tony under all that. Idly, he began to loosen Tony’s tie, softly chuckling. “Tell me truthfully... me being here with you, like this, is the ultimate ‘fuck you’ to your father, isn’t it?”

“I swear, the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind, but now that you mention it... there is a certain poetry to it.” He leaned into Steve, luxuriating in the solidity and warmth of his touch, like a cat wordlessly demanding petting. His tie fell to the floor, and his vest was slowly unbuttoned, and Tony was completely content with the anticipated trajectory of their present course.

Easing Tony out of his vest, his eyes fixed on his hands as they worked, Steve ventured hesitantly, “I wish you could have known the Howard I knew. He was a good man. A little self-absorbed, sure, but his heart was in the right place. I don’t understand what happened to him.”

“Power. The Cold War. Alcoholism. Oh, and the crushing disappointment of me.”

Steve shook his head a little, sighing. “He just didn’t know you, Tone. He was a man of his time.”

“Uh, you mean the time you grew up in, right?” Tony folded his arms across his chest and turned away, looking out the window. “For a man of that time, you seem okay with the idea of fucking me.”

“Come on, Tone. Howard didn’t have to worry about falling in love with the wrong person. I did.” Steve stood behind Tony, wrapping his arms around him. He pressed his lips to Tony’s temple in a conciliatory kiss. “All the lies that went with being gay back then? Just to survive? It does something to a person.”

Tony’s lips flattened into a tight, thin line, as he bit back a petty response. Young, sickly Steve had lived through the Great Depression. He’d been rejected time and again for military service, only to be turned into one hell of a science fair project. He’d served his country as a propaganda tool and super-soldier, experienced the horrors of war, lost his lifelong best friend, and gone into the ice for seventy years. All while hiding his sexual orientation. On the heels of all that, Steve had awakened to an America where two men could openly love one another. Hell, he’d managed to defrost in time to witness the legalization of same-sex marriage from coast to coast. How could Tony possibly explain how difficult it was to get there? The angst of his own upbringing? Those early, confusing days of realizing he wasn’t quite straight, but wasn’t entirely gay either, and that there was an actual word for that? Coming of age, as a bisexual male in the age of AIDS? Intellectually, Tony knew he had every right to his feelings. It was just that somehow, when stacked up next to The Life and Times of Steven Grant Rogers, he couldn’t help but suspect his complaints about Howard came across as a poor little rich boy moaning about getting slapped on the wrist for fucking the hired help.

With effort, he shoved aside this latest round of self-loathing, returning to the present with a few deliberate breaths. He smiled crookedly at their dim, translucent reflection in the polished window, grateful for a glimpse of the fondness in Steve’s eyes. “Stop that.”

“What?”

“Being all understanding and perfect. Being Steve Rogers. Making me love you.”

“Oh. I can’t help the Steve Rogers thing, but...” Steve forced his flawless features into as neutral an expression as he could muster, clearing his throat. “Better?”

“Better. I have a general rule not to swoon before noon, so if you could try to contain...,” he paused as he swept his gaze over Mirror Steve, “Well, all of that, it’d be swell.”

Steve tightened his grip on Tony, and drew him closer, whispering an invitation. “What if I’d like to see you swoon?” He punctuated the query by grazing his lips over the shell of Tony’s ear, his breath warm and seductive. Steve’s hand found Tony’s belt, deftly removing it and sending it flying. Hooking his thumb under Tony’s waistband, Steve traced a slow, aching line across Tony’s lower abdomen, meandering from one hip to the other, the raggedness of his breath a wordless plea for more.

Tony groaned, his voice breaking as he announced, “JARVIS, please note that, despite his reputation, Steve does not play fair.”

Between kisses and gentle nibbles, Steve murmured, “While you’re at it, JARVIS, _for science_ , please note that Tony smells incredible. (What is that you’re wearing, anyway? Is that new? I like it.)” His lips toyed with Tony’s earlobe for a moment, then he added, “Also, he drives me to the damn brink with those puppy dog eyes.”

“Puppy dog eyes?” Tony pulled away slightly, turning to meet Steve’s gaze for a long moment. “These old things?”

Without waiting for an answer, Tony reached around the nape of Steve’s neck, pulling him into a slow, thorough kiss. Savoring the fullness of Steve’s lips, the taste of him, the mingling of their breath, Tony lost all thought of whatever the hell they’d been discussing, caught up in a moment made entirely of love, lust, Steve, and his incredible mouth. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he vaguely recalled a lunch reservation, but it didn’t matter right now. Steve was getting hard, and Tony couldn’t think straight with that much cock rubbing against him.

The opening bars to “Trouble Man” blared from Steve’s pocket, and Steve froze, groaning. “I’m… so, so sorry.” As he fished his phone out of his jeans, he extricated himself from Tony’s arms, kissing him on the nose before stepping away. With his back to Tony, he answered the call with a hushed, “Hey, what’s up? I’m on vacation this week, remember?”

Between the ringtone and the sudden shift in mood, Tony knew it was Sam Wilson, a guy Steve had recruited to join the Avengers. Nice enough guy, there wasn’t anything to dislike there, other than the occasional, painful cockblock… It was increasingly hard for Tony not to notice how Steve tended to adopt a too-deliberate poker face whenever Sam called. Every time. Especially lately. And, although he didn’t want to admit it, it made him feel panicky.

Determined to shrug it off, Tony headed in the other direction, after a quick pantomime of unpacking, which he knew was absurd, since a) Steve wasn’t even looking at him, and b) their suitcases were probably already unpacked for them. But hey, he was cool, right? Cool with everything, whatever those two were cooking up, which was probably nothing.

In his bedroom, Tony peered into a closet, then opened a dresser drawer. “Right. That’s what you pay people to do for you.”

He sat on the edge of his bed, drawing a deep breath and willing his heart rate to slow down. He pulled out his phone, and smirked at a series of texts from Natasha, who had apparently taken the liberty of snooping in his suitcase before he left New York. _The thanks I get for employing someone with her skill set…_ He tapped out a quick reply.

_‘I’m having you fitted with a shock collar if you ever do that again.’_

Within seconds, his phone buzzed. _‘Kinky. And you didn’t answer my questions, Stark. Did he say no?’_

_‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. Not that it’s any of your beeswax, but I haven’t asked yet.’_

Grumbling to himself, he shoved the phone back in his pocket, and returned to the dresser. A small velvet box was there, nestled among the silk boxers. With trembling fingers, he flipped the lid open, and stared at the polished platinum ring he’d been hiding (at least from Steve) for weeks. He just hadn’t found the right moment, or the right words yet. Every time he came to the edge of it, something in him insisted he would need to make a case for Steve’s yes. If he couldn’t do that… well, he just couldn’t fuck this up.

Footsteps approached, and Tony quickly snapped the lid shut, and threw some underwear over the box.

“So, where were we…?” Steve smiled (a bit too brightly?) as he pulled Tony toward the bed. “I know we promised, no work this week. It won’t happen again.”

Brushing aside the jealous impulse to ask what Sam wanted, Tony gave a distracted nod. With a lifetime of practice, he shoved his nagging unease back into an overstuffed chamber designated for uncomfortable questions and unresolved hurts. He followed Steve onto the bed, curling up on his side to face him. Tony reached out, thoughtful as his fingertips traced the muscular form before him, bulging impressively under a (ridiculously) form-fitting, royal blue pullover. “You know, they do make these in larger sizes.”

“Did you invite me to Philadelphia to make fun of my wardrobe?” Steve’s eyes twinkled.

“Yes, I guess now is a good a time to tell you, this is an intervention.”

“If it upsets you...” Steve tugged at the hem, exposing a patch of firm, well-muscled, kissable belly. “I could get rid of it.”

“As tempting as that is - and really, you have no idea – we have a lunch reservation, and a city to see.” Despite his stated intentions, Tony allowed his fingers to wander to that delectable bare skin, delighting in the tremor his touch sent through Steve.

“You sure they won’t hold that reservation for you? I mean...” Steve pouted teasingly, taking Tony’s hand and gently kissing his fingertips, one at a time. “You’re Tony Stark. People _wait_ for Tony Stark. I know I did.” He nibbled the tip of Tony’s index finger, suggestively wrapping his full lips around it while peering at his lover through lowered lashes.

Briefly questioning his own sanity as he strove to muster a modicum of impulse control, Tony groaned faintly. “Cause of death: that thing you are doing right now.” Reluctantly, he pulled away, adjusting his pants as he rose from the bed. “As soon as the blood returns to my brain, I’ll have the car pulled around.”

“You are a man on a mission.”

“I am a man in need of sustenance, if I’m going to keep up with you.” He reached out, kissing Steve’s hand as he helped him to his feet. “Besides, there’s something to be said for delayed gratification.”

Steve quirked an eyebrow.

With a rueful shrug, Tony muttered, “Or so I’ve heard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an area in Philadelphia known as the first "Gayborhood" in any major city in the U.S. I've repurposed a building a couple of blocks over from that for Tony's Philly-based home away from home, for reasons made clear in the story. Yes, I based it on the Ayer Building, an actual Art Deco-era building, because it's one of the more modern-looking structures in that area, with some incredible details inside and out, and it's right by all the historically significant landmarks in the old city.


	2. You Made Me Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without question, Tony was in the throes of a near-terminal case of uncharacteristic optimism about humanity, and silently blamed (and adored) Steve for it.

Lunch was expensive (of course), and cooked specially for them by the head chef at Tony’s favorite Italian restaurant in the city. Steve’s super-soldier metabolism meant the chef could send out plate after plate of exquisitely prepared culinary treats. 

“I understand the metabolism thing, but don’t get the capacity... how are you able to put that much away at once?” Despite countless shared meals, Tony still found himself watching intently, his elbows propped on the table. 

“I know it’s hard for you to accept this, but this may be something you never figure out.” Steve shrugged, stabbing another forkful of gnocchi. “I just eat ‘til I’m full. Same as anyone.”

“Your stomach must be at least the size of my head.” Tony leaned around the table, trying to get a look at his partner’s abdomen. He reached a hand toward Steve, only to have it batted away. “Would you be willing to let Banner do a few tests? Maybe some imaging...”

“I will never understand your fascination with my internal organs.” 

“You don’t seem to mind my fascination with the external ones.”

“You’re right. And yet here we are, eating lunch because our reservation couldn’t wait.” Steve cleared his throat and gave Tony a pointed look. “Are you gonna eat that sausage?” 

Tony shook his head, dismissively waving his hand over his plate. “Fill up. I’ll need you at full strength tonight.”

With the city’s historic landmarks beckoning, they dropped off the car at the tower, and embarked on an ambling tour of Philadelphia. After picking up a visitor’s guide, they approached the Liberty Bell Center. They paused for a few whispered words and photo ops with the park rangers, while the place was cleared and closed for a break. One ranger ushered Steve and Tony into the building, waiting at the door while the superheroic pair basked in the presence of one of the greatest symbols of American ideals. Steve walked around the space, slowly, reverently reading the infographics and visiting each of the alcoves dedicated to the abolitionists and suffragettes, before joining Tony near the bell.

“I don’t even have words right now. That’s how much this means to me, Tone.” 

Tony smiled at his partner’s hushed sincerity, contentedly resting a hand on the small of his back with the casual intimacy that comes with years of devotion. He inclined his head in the direction of a nearby informational placard. “I couldn’t help but notice you took your time examining that x-ray of the Liberty Bell’s crack.”

Suppressing a laugh, Steve shook his head. “I can’t take you out in public.”

“Hey, it’s okay to be a little turned on by the crack in the Liberty Bell, Steve. I’m feeling a bit stirred up myself.” He allowed his hand to rove down the curve of his partner’s posterior, softly whistling a bit of the Battle Hymn of the Republic, the tune trailing off as he indulged in a quick squeeze. “Although that could have something to do with my ill-advised experiment in delayed gratification.”

“Hang on.” Steve pulled out his phone, and snapped a picture of himself with Tony. “You need to see the look on your face. You actually look like you’re in pain.”

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” Tony squinted at the display and rolled his eyes. “Delete that.”

The park ranger opened the door and sheepishly tapped his watch, gesturing at the line forming outside. Tony’s hand returned to a chaste spot on Steve’s waist, and with broad, crowd-pleasing smiles, the vacationing superheroes walked out, pausing for a few minutes to sign autographs and take selfies with the park rangers and some of the gathered families.

As they walked toward Independence Hall, Steve glanced over at Tony, a blissful smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Catching the intense blue gaze fixed on him, Tony slowed to a stop, basking in the attention. “You know, Steve, a guy catches you looking at him like that, he’s gonna get ideas.”

“Good. I like your ideas. Most of ‘em, anyway.” His brow furrowed with thought, Steve interlaced his fingers with Tony’s. “You know how, when I was a kid, I got sick a lot? One time, it was really bad, with the fever and the cough and all. I start to say, ‘I love you, Ma,’ just in case… in case I kick it or something, you know? Of course, it sets off a bad coughing fit. She tells me to hush, and does this... “ Very deliberately, he squeezed Tony’s hand, three times in a row. “She said it meant ‘I love you.’ I never figured out if she made that up.”

Tony contemplated their clasped hands, planting a sentimental kiss on Steve’s ring finger. He looked up at Steve, then squeezed his hand three times. “I like your mom’s style.”

Steve chuckled. It was endearing, Tony’s willingness to indulge these moments when his heart insisted on trying to reconcile the life he once knew, with the life he had now. “I can’t make up my mind whether she’d have loved you or hated you, Tone. You’re smart, so… love, right? But you look like the kind of fella who could get a person in trouble, so… maybe hate’s too strong a word. But she’d have had her eye on you, to make sure your intentions were noble.”

“The noblest. Scout’s honor, Mrs. Rogers, wherever you are.” He raised his left hand in an approximation of the scout salute. “I’d have found a way to win her over. I hear I can be very charming.”

“I’m sure she’d think you were the handsomest thing she’d ever seen. And she met Clark Gable once at a movie premiere in New York.” 

“The Rogers family gold standard, eh?” 

“Back then? Yeah. At least as far as looks go.” Steve’s tone was light but genuine as he added, “Pretty sure I like you better.” 

Arriving at Independence Hall, Tony fished out a stack of tickets from an interior breast pocket, fanning them out with a flourish. “They allowed me to buy up all the tickets for the next half hour. Do you want someone to show us around, or would you prefer a more... _personal_ tour?” 

To Tony’s great satisfaction, Steve opted for the latter, but only after eliciting what was smirkingly declared a "deliciously earnest" promise of “no funny business here.” They strolled through the place, hands clasped, soaking up the atmosphere and history. Occasionally, Steve would pause to read aloud (in reverently hushed tones) an interesting fact or stirring passage from one of the many displays throughout the building where the Constitution was hammered out and adopted. 

Tony had been here before, but not like this. Never with someone who literally wore his _aw, shucks, God Bless America_ ideals on his sleeve, and believed wholeheartedly in the ideals espoused (though not necessarily lived up to) by the country’s forebears. Despite their fundamental agreement on principles, he and Steve had engaged in a few heated conversations over the years, debating the best methods for addressing systemic injustices while safeguarding liberty. But here, in a place haunted by the earnest echoes of men who fought for liberty and equality? Tony had to admit, at least to himself, he might be willing to grant Steve a few rhetorical points. 

Without question, he was in the throes of a near-terminal case of uncharacteristic optimism about humanity, and silently blamed (and adored) Steve for it. 

The ring was in the dresser, back in the penthouse. This should have been the moment; would have been, if he’d been prepared. _Steve, in this supremely patriotic edifice, witnessed by the ghosts of Thomas Jefferson and that goddamn John Hancock, will you consent to make me the happiest Avenger ever to Avenge?_

“Hey, daydreamer, you still with me?” Steve pulled him out of his reverie with a kiss on the cheek and a whispered, “Please tell me you’re thinking about all the things I’m gonna do to you when we get home.”

Tony’s eyebrows shot up. “I, ah, thought you said no funny business here...?”

“Eh, _you_ promised. I didn't say anything about myself.” With a mischievous gleam in his eye, Steve placed his hands on Tony’s hips, tugging him closer. “So, was I right?

Setting aside the thoughts he’d been entertaining, Tony pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I was just thinking, and you can feel free to agree here... I have the best ideas.” 

Steve smirked. “Two words: delayed gratification?”

“Ehh, I will admit, I have some questions about my judgment on that. But let’s stay focused on the matter at hand. This trip? Pretty great idea, right?”

“This trip was the _best_ idea, Tony.” 

They spent the rest of their afternoon at the nearby American Philosophical Society Museum. Steve was delighted to be granted up close access to Thomas Jefferson’s original, handwritten copy of the Declaration of Independence, and to some of Benjamin Franklin’s notes which, Tony observed with some disappointment, contained “fewer jokes about bodily functions than I’d been lead to expect.” 

Arm in arm, they began their walk toward home, as the afternoon shadows deepened toward a cool, autumnal dusk. The day had been, in Tony’s estimation, pretty damn perfect. Steve’s relaxed, soft expression was more gratifying than just about anything else he’d ever accomplished in his life, including but in no way limited to the entirety of Stark Industries, the Iron Man suit, and a stain-repellent faux sheepskin rug he’d developed for purely speculative, personal reasons. 

As they approached the elevator, Steve leaned an arm on the doorframe and patted the panel adorned with the stylized, golden image of Tony’s father. With a wink and a smile, he said, “Hey, Howard.”

Tony smirked, and reached out to swipe his hand over the security scanner when Steve pulled him into a lingering kiss. Coming up for breath, Steve murmured against Tony’s ear, “About that delayed gratification…”

“My two least favorite words. Forgive me?” Tony pulled his beloved into the elevator, kissing him and snaking a hand up the back of Steve’s shirt, desperate to touch his smooth, warm flesh.

His mouth occupied with exploring Tony’s neck, Steve offered a muffled, “Mmhmmm. Just… never suggest that... again...” 

They were half undressed and grinding against each other when the doors opened into the penthouse. “Is that thing slower than usual tonight or is it just my desperate need to get you naked? Never mind, come here.” Kicking a heap of discarded jackets and shirts into the living space, Tony continued his frantic, fumbling efforts to divest Steve of his impossibly tight jeans. “These fucking jeans… have you seen what they do for your ass and thighs?”

Steve answered his question by pinning him to the nearest wall, raining a torrent of kisses and bites on Tony’s exposed shoulders as he growled roughly, “That’s kinda the point.” 

“I can’t believe I ever thought you were a prude.” 

Steve’s jeans slid to the floor. Like a starving man presented with an expansive buffet, Tony found himself overwhelmed by the abundance of his options. Steve’s boxer shorts were slung low on his hips, straining to contain his erection. With dexterous fingers, Tony found the sensitive flesh of Steve’s inner thigh, slowly, deliberately working his way higher. Steve’s magnificent body was exceptionally responsive to touch, but there was a tender spot there, high on his thigh, that seemed almost obscenely sensitive. Tony knew it, and was shameless in relishing the guttural sounds Steve made when he touched him there. He looked up at the lustful deep sapphire of Steve’s eager eyes, pupils blown wide and black, and smiled hungrily at him. “God damn it, Steve.” 

He hooked a finger in the waistband of his partner’s boxers, and tugged him in the direction of the bedroom. Tony knew exactly what he wanted from the buffet. Everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter, but NECESSARY. Next chapter is significantly longer. And... well, just brace yourselves, okay?


	3. The Way You Look Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘Tonight’s the night. Wish me luck.’_   
>  _‘Luck? You’re Tony Freakin’ Stark. Cap, on the other hand, will need all the luck he can get, assuming he says yes.’_   
>  _‘I knew I could count on you for a supportive word, sour patch.’_

“When you said ‘cocktails and maybe a little dancing,’ I assumed the _dancing_ would involve, I don’t know… a box step, a waltz, maybe a foxtrot? The Greatest Generation’s Greatest Hits?” Tony looked over at his partner, his dark eyes sparkling with playful bewilderment. 

They were at a nightclub in Philadelphia’s “Gayborhood,” chosen by Steve. (“Based on…?” “Yelp reviews.”) The dance floor was crammed with impeccably groomed, very fit young men in club-going attire, and a DJ was spinning thumping dance pop tracks. Around the perimeter of the room, clusters of men chatted flirtatiously over cocktails, while waiters in tight black pants and tighter black t-shirts navigated the crowd with trays of drinks. Tony, wearing well-cut, expensive trousers and a sharp-looking vest and tie, suddenly felt overdressed.

“You’re the one who’s always telling me I should cut loose and experiment a bit.” Steve scanned the room, then flagged down a passing waiter, who seated them at a table near the back. Tony couldn’t argue with that, so he shrugged and ordered a round of drinks. 

After a day of teasing, touching, and poorly timed phone calls, a “quick stop” at the tower to change for dinner had translated into hours that somehow disappeared in the bedroom. Steve’s hair was freshly washed and neatly combed, and he’d changed into dark trousers and a crisp blue button-down shirt. His handsome features shone with youthful vigor (and a glow Tony attributed to their thoroughly indulgent romp). He still looked young enough to fit into a place like this, even if just barely. Tony looked good for his age, but wasn’t delusional enough to forget he had decades on most of these guys. Technically, Steve did, too, but damn, he looked fantastic for a guy pushing a hundred.

After knocking back a large swig of scotch, Tony rested his chin on one hand, and smiled over at Steve, who kept looking around at the crowd. “So, what are you thinking, old man? Maybe a Lindy? Jitterbug?”

Steve bit his lip. “You think this is ridiculous.”

“No, no, not at all. I’m just… suddenly aware I’m old enough to be everyone’s favorite eccentric, billionaire uncle.”

“You’re like Rosalind Russell, but with fewer hats, and really sexy facial hair.” With an affectionate wink, Steve rose, draping an arm over Tony’s shoulders. “Humor me, handsome. Come dance?” 

They made their way to the dance floor, where Steve treated Tony to a hell of a show, mimicking the decidedly modern dance moves he’d observed in the crowd. Tony couldn’t help but be reminded of the tightly-wound grace and efficiency of Steve’s fighting style, as he made the most of the athletic body created for him by a couple of WWII-era mad scientists. He was, at least in Tony’s eyes, owning the hell out of the dance floor. As the song ended, Tony gazed wonderingly at Steve. “You are full of surprises tonight.”

“The night is still young.” Steve flashed a dazzling smile and lead Tony off the dance floor. With a flourish, he pulled out Tony’s chair for him, before taking a seat. His face still flushed from the dance, he leaned across the table. “For the record, after some _scientific analysis,_ I can safely say you are the handsomest guy in the place.”

“Oh? Tell me more, Professor Rogers.” Tony smoothed his vest over his torso, then leaned forward, mirroring Steve’s amorous, heavy-lidded gaze. “Would you say it’s my eyes? I’ve been told I have bedroom eyes.”

“Bedroom eyes, bedroom lips…” The candle flickering on the table illuminated the increasingly rosy glow of Steve’s cheeks. “Everything about you was made for the bedroom.” 

Tony licked his lips. How could his middle-aged body possibly need _anything_ right now? He’d already indulged every impulse, more than satisfied his every need, and yet… there was that unmistakeable stirring. Steve’s exquisite, insatiable super-soldier body would be Tony’s undoing. It was a fate to which he was happily resigned. 

“Can I bring you guys another round?” 

With a chuckle and a mildly annoyed sigh, Steve excused himself to find a restroom. Tony gamely addressed the cocktail drought that had summoned this tight t-shirt-wearing Ruiner of Moments. Despite the nearly unforgivable interruption, Tony slipped the waiter a generous tip when he returned with fresh drinks. He pulled out his phone and sent a quick message to Rhodey. 

_‘Tonight’s the night. Wish me luck.’_

_‘Luck? You’re Tony Freakin’ Stark. Cap, on the other hand, will need all the luck he can get, assuming he says yes.’_

_‘I knew I could count on you for a supportive word, sour patch.’_

Tony realized his drink was half gone, and looked around. Steve appeared to be deep in conversation with one of the waiters. As though he could feel the weight of Tony’s gaze, Steve looked across the crowd and smiled at Tony. He shook the waiter’s hand, then made his way back to the table.

“So, that waiter tells me there’s this art museum that does a thing called _Meet Your Masterpiece_ … I know, the name’s a little corny, but it’s art and cocktails, with live jazz musicians and dancing and everything. Might be a little more our speed? I looked it up - it’s maybe a ten minute drive.” 

Tony chuckled, draining his glass as he fished out his keys. “Whither thou goest, I will go. Lead on, _mon cher capitaine_.”

“Great.” Steve held out his hand for the keys, clearing his throat. “You literally just emptied a glass in front of me.” 

“Of course, beloved.” Raising his hands in surrender, Tony followed Steve out to the car, riding a giddy wave. The little touches throughout the day, the tender words and glances… it had all exceeded his fondest hopes. It had been a perfect day, and wasn’t over yet. His heart fluttered in his chest, as he considered the huge step he was about to take with Steve. He couldn’t wait to get home.

**********

Pulling up at the museum’s valet drop-off, Steve glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror, then looked over at Tony. “Ready to see some Picassos? I think they have the Girl With a Goat here.”

“A goat, eh? What kind of party did you say this was?”

Rolling his eyes, Steve got out of the car, grabbing their jackets and tucking the valet ticket into his breast pocket. He slipped an arm around Tony’s shoulders, and they headed in.

“Hang on, did that say…?” Tony turned to look at a sign in the entryway, welcoming guests to _Meet Your Masterpiece_ at the Barnes Foundation. He stopped. 

“Hmm?” Steve gently tried to resume walking, his arm still around Tony. “I think there’s a coat check over here.”

 _It’s just a name. An art museum name. Come on, Tony, you’re smarter than that._ He followed Steve to the coat check, handing over his jacket. He wasn’t about to sabotage this day, not over some ridiculous coincidence like that. He brushed his lips against Steve’s cheek, defiantly silencing his insecurity. “You said there’d be cocktails here, right?”

Throughout the galleries, a predominantly LGBT gathering of Philadelphia’s best dressed mingled amiably, admiring the extensive collection of Impressionist and modern art, while a jazz trio played standards in one of the side galleries. Several couples were dancing to “The Way You Look Tonight,” and Steve’s expression shifted into what Tony recognized as the _“oh I love this song”_ look. 

“May I?” Tony pulled him into a playful dance, humming under his breath as they danced their way through the gallery. As much as Tony had enjoyed seeing Steve dance at that club, this was where Steve was truly in his element. Dancing to songs he knew from the old days, surrounded by art and beauty, and most importantly, in Tony’s arms. Steve’s blue eyes were crinkled up at the corners, beaming incandescent adoration at his partner. Determined to get through one freaking dance without making a sentimental spectacle of himself, Tony blinked back an unbidden impulse to weep. 

Suddenly keenly aware they hadn’t eaten dinner, he steered Steve toward a table full of hors d’oeuvres. Elegantly arranged trays of well-dressed crackers, gourmet toasts, and a ubiquity of bacon-wrapped shrimp would have to suffice for now. While Steve tended to stick with what he knew (“Do you think they have some normal cheese and crackers somewhere?”), Tony grabbed something from every tray he passed, offering the “truly horrible” things to Steve for a taste. “Oh dear god, you have to try this thing. It’s like a cookie made out of boiled socks, the Great Depression, and beets.” 

Steve’s nose wrinkled with distaste as he gamely allowed the offending “treat” to be popped into his mouth. Almost immediately, he looked around for something to spit it out into, but gulped miserably, swallowing just to get it out of his mouth. “Aw, no, Tone. That’s not right. I’m gonna need something strong to wash that away.”

“Wait til the _earthy aftertaste_ kicks in. I think you’ll really hate that part.”

After wiping his tongue on a napkin, Steve volunteered to get in line for drinks, while Tony made a game of looking for the Picasso Steve had mentioned. The place was crowded, and the gallery walls were clustered with framed works, so it was easier said than done. He found several paintings by artists he knew he should find fascinating, including some nudes by Matisse and a very nice Seurat that would probably look nice in the penthouse here, but no Picasso involving a goat. Would he even recognize a goat, as rendered by Picasso? What exactly would that look like? He considered asking someone, just so he could triumphantly present it to Steve when he came back, but stubbornly opted to keep meandering through the gallery.

Twenty minutes and still no goat girl. Or Steve. Tony scratched at his beard, and smacked his lips. He could still taste that weird thing he’d eaten. He began working his way through the place, looking for the bar, which was in a corner of the central gallery. The line was long, but after scanning the room, Tony caught a glimpse of Steve standing tall over the assembled, thirsty throng, at the head of the line. Excusing his way through the crowd, he joined him at the bar.

“I was starting to think I’d lost you.” Tony rested a hand on Steve’s shoulder, eyes sparkling as he squeezed three times. He began to offer an apology for the interruption, but stopped, his mouth opening and closing repeatedly. Staring at the bartender, he realized, with humiliated horror, he’d seen this face before. In fact, he featured prominently in a display at the Smithsonian. James Buchanan Barnes, Steve’s notorious, long-lost childhood friend.

“I… I was just about to come find you.” Steve’s eyes darted from Bucky to Tony. 

Too rattled to trust his voice, Tony acknowledged Bucky with a slight nod. He risked a brief, accusing glance at Steve, then excused himself with a barely audible mutter. 

“Tony, wait.” With clenched fists, Steve watched helplessly as Tony fled. 

Bucky was staring at him with an impertinent smirk he’d seen countless times, in countless Brooklyn alleys - a look that usually went along with an amused, _“What the fuck have you gotten yourself into this time, Stevie?”_

“Buck, I have to--”

Bucky scribbled his phone number and address on a cocktail napkin. He pushed it at Steve. “Go. I gotta get back to work. We can talk later.” 

Gratefully, Steve nodded, pocketing the napkin as he pushed his way through the crowd. He was trembling and frantic when he caught up with him, halfway to the door. “Tony. Please. I can explain.”

Tony stopped, raising his hands defensively, his mind reeling. “How long have you been planning this touching reunion with Jason Bourne? Since that phone call from Wilson earlier?” 

With a clenched jaw, Steve looked at Tony. “No.” He shifted his gaze to his feet and dropped his voice. “Not technically. We had some intel this morning, but it wasn’t solid yet.”

“That’s a hell of a technicality, Steve. Did you ever consider giving me even a _little_ heads up about what you were up to? Or was public humiliation part of the grand plan?”

“Damn it, Tony, it’s not like that.” Steve tried to steer Tony to a nearby alcove, where it was quieter. 

“Don’t fucking touch me right now.” Tony shied away from Steve’s grasp, rooting himself in place.

“Fine. We can do this here, if that’s what you want.” Steve stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Sam and I have been trying to track Bucky down since the incident in D.C. He’s not well.”

“Gosh, I feel so bad for the guy. He’s clearly having a rough time.” Tony cast a hostile glance toward the bar, where Bucky - well-groomed, nicely-dressed, flirtatious, _looking like a guy in-the-goddamn-prime-of-his-life_ Bucky - was leaning over the bar to receive a kiss on each cheek from a pair of what had to be Abercrombie and Fitch models. “Oh yeah, I see it now. Really looks like he’s lost his will to live.”

“He needs help. Sam called me, when you were in the shower, before we went out again tonight. He confirmed the lead he had this morning, said I needed to follow up before he moved again.” 

“Barnes has been working at that nightclub, hasn’t he?” Steve’s abashed silence was all the admission Tony needed to continue piecing things together. “And when he wasn’t there, you asked around. That waiter told you Barnes was working the _Meet Your Masterpiece_ event tonight. And suddenly you wanted jazz and Picasso.”

“Tone, I need you listen to me. I messed up. I left out some… important information today. But everything I said, everything we did together, was the truth.”

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t be here, couldn’t look at Steve for even a moment longer. “Go talk to your wayward bartender, Cap. I’m going home.” Without waiting for a response, he started walking, steadfastly refusing to look back at Steve’s shattered expression.

The moment he was outside, Tony realized he didn’t have the valet ticket for his car. He also didn’t have his jacket, which Steve had checked when they got inside, so he had the claim check. Damn it. In no mood to argue with the valets, and 100% unwilling to be anywhere near Steve right now, he began walking in the general direction of the tower. It was a chilly night, but the walk, combined with the searing, white-hot sensation of humiliation, would warm him. 

Twenty minutes into the walk, his phone buzzed, announcing a text message from Steve. 

_‘You forgot your coat. And car. And me.’_

_‘I didn’t have the claim check for the coat. Or my car. Or you, apparently. Did you meet your masterpiece?’_

_‘Where are you? We should talk. Not like this.’_

_‘Walking home.’_

_‘Can I pick you up? Please? It’s cold out. Which way did you go?’_

_‘No, I’m fine. Almost home.’_

_‘Ok, I’m heading out now. See you soon.’_

Tony stopped to reorient himself, muttering and irritable. He was not ready to deal with anything yet. The drink he’d been promised (to wash away the lingering taste of beets) had been forgotten, traded for the bitterness of bile. Thankfully, he had his wallet in his back pocket, and there was a neighborhood bar just around the corner from here. Everything else could wait.

**********

Steve was perched on the arm of an easy chair, feet on the seat cushion, head bowed low. He appeared to be trying to bore a hole through his phone with his eyes, when Tony emerged from the elevator and joined him in the living room. “God damn it, Tony, where have you been? You said you were almost home an hour ago. I’ve been calling--”

“I needed some time to drink. Did I say drink? I meant… drink.” Tony drawled conversationally, maintaining some distance between them as he leaned against the back of the sofa. “So…? How’s James?”

Steve’s pained grimace flickered and receded into a carefully controlled mask. “Maybe we should have this conversation tomorrow, after you’ve sobered up. I don’t want us saying things we’ll regret.”

“And miss the capper to our perfect day? I wouldn’t dream of it.” Tony pulled his phone out of his pocket, fumbling with it as he glanced at the display. “Well, look at that. I have some missed calls from you. Oh, and Natasha’s texted me some rather choice words. I am _'a mean man.'_ ”

Leaping up from his seat, Steve took a few steps toward Tony. “Just delete those, she doesn’t know what--”

“Steve.” Raising a hand in a plea for silence, Tony closed his eyes for a moment. His head was pounding, and everything felt dangerously unsteady. He wanted to sit down, but was certain the floor would give way beneath him if he tried to move. “Just… tell me what the hell is going on. Because what it looks like, to me--”

“I know, it looks bad. It does. I realize that now.” Steve’s hands were raised in a conciliatory gesture. He cleared his throat, unsure where to begin. “Buck and me… we’re like brothers. Always were. You don’t know what it did to me to lose him.”

“Believe it or not, I am intimately acquainted with the experience of grief. Orphan, remember?” Tony tossed his phone toward the coffee table, missing by a mile and watching sullenly as it skidded across the polished floor. Resigned, he made no move to retrieve it.

“I’m... not saying you haven’t lost people you loved, Tone. I’m just asking you to try to understand what it’s like to lose someone, and then suddenly have a chance at having them back in your life.”

“See… You don’t seem to understand how much I get that. Maybe if I didn’t, I wouldn’t feel like puking every time you start waxing rhapsodic about good ol’ Bucky.”

“Come on, Tony. I’m just asking for a little support here. I don’t get jealous when you talk about all the stuff you and Rhodes have been through together.” Steve took a seat at the far end of the sofa. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, aggressively mussing it into a still-artful arrangement that, in Tony’s wounded but besotted eyes, served only to highlight the chiseled desirability of Steve’s features. “After everything you and I have been through, why is it so hard to just trust me?”

Tony wanted to be cool and rational. He wanted it all to be over and okay, wanted to trust, wanted to believe. He wanted to bury his face against Steve’s warm, solid chest, and cry with him, and kiss away all this ugliness. Despite the intensity of his intentions, he faltered, his “I can be reasonable” speech twisting in his mouth, coming out harsh and hurt. 

“You’re right. What possible reason could I have for these ridiculous trust issues? Rejections from my father? Torture and betrayals by people I believed in? _Ah, Tony, why don’t you trust people?_ ” Eyes wild with pain, he spoke rapidly, his voice ragged as the words spilled from him. “The sick thing, Steve? The really sick thing is that, despite all that, I’ve spent the last few years telling myself I could trust you. _Steve isn’t like the rest, Tony. Steve’s all about integrity, Tony._ Right? Only to have my goddamn trust thrown back in my face tonight. You dare to ask me why it’s hard to trust, when you and your wingman have apparently spent _two years_ conspiring to keep me in the dark? Leading me on, lying to me, while obsessing over this fucking ghost from your past.” 

“Because you get WEIRD about Bucky. Every time. I’ve tested the waters, and tried to talk to you about him. And no matter what I say, you get that look on your face - yeah, that’s the one, like a kicked puppy, and I have to spend a week feeling terrible and reassuring you, just to get us back on an even keel.”

“So this was all _my_ fault? I _forced_ you to lie to me? Tell me, is this longsuffering stoicism a Greatest Generation thing? Or do you get a kick out of your moral superiority over everyone else?” Tony shook his head, as a bitter chuckle escaped his lips. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the back of the sofa. He was losing the ability to regulate his breath, as the panic rose in him. He knew he should just stop talking, go to bed, leave this for tomorrow, but couldn’t get a handle on it. He had a mouthful of venom and had to spit it out, or he would die. “Could you at least have the decency to admit the problem here is not _my_ feelings about Barnes?”

“When, in your entire life, has it ever NOT been about you?” Steve slammed his palm down on the coffee table, cracking the wood on impact. The outburst was as jarring to Steve as it was to Tony. Wearily, Steve sank to his knees. He rubbed his hand over the damaged table, in a silent gesture of apology, as though he could repair the breach with his touch. 

“Two years, Steve. Two. Fucking. Years.” Unsteadily, Tony made his way to the other side of the room. He sank into a chair, covering his face with shaking hands, silently seeking refuge in the numbness settling over him. Maybe trying to forge something meaningful and pure and _so fucking holy it hurt_ wasn’t possible for someone like him. Maybe sneering cynicism was where he belonged, and all this goddamn vulnerability was just… unnatural. Impossible. Absurd. Finally, he looked over at Steve, kneeling by the table. Tony loved him, more than he’d ever loved anything or anyone. And damn everything to hell, he was losing him.

“Tony.” Steve’s voice was soft and pleading. His hands lay helpless in his lap, and he gazed across the room with eyes bright with unshed tears.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Tony sighed and retrieved his phone from where it had skidded across the floor. Ignoring a rising tide of self-loathing, he tapped at the screen a few times, then cleared his throat. The words he found were small and businesslike. “There’s a car pulling around for you. I assume Barnes is expecting you.” He looked briefly at Steve’s stricken expression, and quickly averted his eyes. “This is your big moment, right? What you’ve worked so hard for? I hope it was worth it.” 

“Tony, please don’t do this. You know how much I-”

“Damn it, Steve, can’t you just take the incredibly gracious offer of a ride, and go? I’m sparing you the necessity of telling any more lies for my sake.” He strode across the room and grabbed Steve’s hand, pulling him down the hall behind him. “Come on, I’ll help you pack your things.”

The light in the closet came up as the door slid open. Tony grabbed an empty suitcase, and carried it to the bed, unzipping it and throwing the lid back. “You have some stuff in that dresser over there.” Tony jerked his head in the direction of the dressers as he stomped back to the closet for the few things Steve had hung up in there. Mixed in with some of the newer, dressier shirts and trousers Tony had bought for Steve were half a dozen plaid Grandpa shirts and some jeans that appeared to have been ironed. Tony found himself staring at them, suddenly hesitating to go through with this. Those damn shirts. They were cute, in an _“I’m a charming, old fashioned guy who’s been stringing you along while trying to find my old boyfriend”_ kind of way. 

Steeling his resolve, Tony came back out and threw an armful of clothes onto the suitcase, then looked around. Steve was gone. A small black box sat open on the dresser, ring nestled in the cushioned velvet, light glinting accusingly from its polished surface. 

“God damn it.”

He went to the window, staring dejectedly as his car pulled away from the curb, carrying his almost-fiance off to his new life with his old… whatever. He rested his forehead on the cool window, exhaling heavily and fogging a patch of glass. Idly, he reached up and drew a sad face on the condensation, immediately scrubbing his forearm over it to erase the maudlin evidence.

Tony’s phone buzzed. _'Hey pal, what was that you said about me being nosy? BTW, what’s the thread count on these sheets?'_ Incoming picture from Natasha… flipping him off, looking infuriatingly comfortable in his bedroom at Avengers Tower. _God damn it. Everyone hates me._

Ignoring the suitcase, and the heap of clothes and hangers piled around it, Tony crawled onto his bed. The rumpled sheets and pillows smelled like Steve…. patriotism and sincerity and adoration and sex. Well, like sex anyway. Maybe none of the rest of it was real. 

He stared numbly at his phone. He wasn’t ready to talk to Nat. Or Rhodey. Or anyone. Not even himself, although he kept doing that anyway, out of habit... habit, and a sudden, crushing boulder of loneliness that knocked the wind out of him. He wanted to call Steve, but didn’t know what the hell he could possibly say. He wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. He wanted a drink, but the scotch was all the way out in the other room. He wished he had taken his shoes off, but his limbs felt too heavy to move. He wondered what it would be like if he never got out of bed again. 

“JARVIS, lock up and lights out, k? No alarm tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several things... I KNOW. DON'T HATE ME. This is nowhere near the end of the story. This section may be one of the hardest things I've ever written. I hate conflict. I hate that they hurt each other. So I cringed through a lot of this, and may have burritoed up in a blanket for comfort. I may still be in that blanket burrito, when you read this.
> 
> The Barnes Foundation is a real place in Philadelphia, with a large, private collection of Impressionist and Modern art. They have a real, monthly event called "Meet Your Masterpiece" - I am in no way claiming that the way I have described the event (an LGBT-themed art, jazz, and cocktail mingle) is what you should expect if you were to attend such a function. The name was evocative, and a bit dramatic, and I ran with it.
> 
> The beet-flavored macaron was inspired by a very real, very upsetting culinary experience. Also, I hate beets. (Beet lovers, please be kind. I have a sensitive palate, and one or two sensitive feelings, buried under layers and layers of beet-hating armor.)
> 
> A brief word about Bucky... Because I have made a conscious decision to omit some details, while retaining others, what we're left with is a guy who is not altogether well, but he's not quite what we saw in CA:CW, either. He's pieced together a fragile sense of self, or at least a functional version of himself that allows him to hold a job at a bar. There will be quite a bit more exploration of that in the chapters to come. 
> 
> Finally, just a wee PSA, friends: self-medicating with alcohol when shit is falling apart in your life? It never, ever helps. Funny how that works.
> 
> The next update will most likely be Sunday. Thanks for reading!


	4. One For My Baby (And One More For the Road)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, I think I’ve figured out your problem.” Rhodes was sitting with one elbow on the back of the couch, facing his friend. Tony had the tv on, watching the news (at least in theory) while working on something on his tablet.
> 
> “If you tell me my problem is me, I’m going to be extremely cranky.”

The drive from the tower to the address on the cocktail napkin only took a few minutes. Steve quietly thanked the driver as he stepped out. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, watching car hang a u-turn to head back. His stomach felt sick. 

Before Steve had left the museum to try to fix things with Tony, Bucky’d told him he had to work til midnight. He should be home soon. Steve took a seat midway up the steps leading to the front door, and settled in to wait. 

He couldn’t shake the thought of Tony’s dark eyes, so full of betrayal and brokenness, and that ring in the dresser. Things had felt serious for a while now between them, _ring serious_ , serious in a way that felt right and almost predestined, if a person believed in that sort of thing. It was hard not to, sometimes, when Steve was holding Tony, and thinking about all the improbable variables that had worked together to put them in the same place at the same time, despite the generations between them. How could this not be fate? And yet, here they were, with Tony probably drinking himself into oblivion in an empty penthouse, and Steve sitting on cold concrete, outside a strange apartment building. 

How had everything spiraled out of control so quickly? Taking his phone out, he pulled up the text messages they’d exchanged. Tony could convey his thoughts with such eloquence, such color. When he spoke of his feelings for Steve, it was surprisingly tender and beautiful. But when Tony was backed into a corner, with hurt feelings, his skill with words rapidly turned into a vicious, envenomed dagger that knew exactly where to prick Steve for maximum damage.

Sighing, he typed out a text message.  
_‘If you wanted to make me feel lousy, you win. I’m a heel. I get it.’_ He stared at it, then deleted it.

 _‘Please be careful tonight, Tony. I know you’re mad at me, but don’t take it out on yourself.’_ Would that push his buttons? Probably. _Delete._

He typed out one last message, his thumb hovering over “send.”  
_‘I love you, Tony. I know you don’t believe me right now. But that doesn’t make it not true.’_

“Hey.” Bucky was halfway up the block, fishing out his keys as he approached the building. “When you took off earlier, I had a feeling I’d see you again tonight. You okay?”

Steve didn’t answer him right away. He wasn’t sure he could talk about Tony - loving him, hating him, worrying about him, wanting him - without breaking down. He didn’t want to dump anything on Bucky yet. Steve wanted to assess his situation first, to be sure he was okay. As much as he wanted to fix this mess with Tony, he needed to focus on Bucky right now. _Duty first._ Everything else could wait. It would have to. 

He looked at his phone again, and with effort, deleted the text message without sending it. “I’m really, really tired. Do you mind if I crash here tonight?”

“What kind of question is that?” Bucky extended a hand, helping Steve to his feet. “Come on. I got a beat-up couch with your name on it, pal.”

**********

Around 10 a.m., Tony awoke with the sun in his eyes.

“JARVIS, when I said no alarm, I meant no sun, too.” 

A progressive tint darkened the windows, returning a sleep-friendly, almost cavelike quality to the room. “Better, sir?”

“Much.”

Tony was still fully clothed, and his shoes had overstayed their welcome. Pulling himself into a seated position, he slipped them off his feet, and threw them at the far wall. Slumping back against the headboard, he sat in the dark, trying to recall exactly how many drinks he’d had last night, debating a trip to the bathroom. _Too many._ With a sigh, he rose and answered nature’s call, grumbling the entire way. Upon his return, he flopped back down and dragged a blanket over his head. 

“What the fuck have I done?”

A hand emerged from the blanket, groping the bedside table until it found his phone. He pulled it into his cocoon. Nothing from Steve. He shouldn’t have hoped. He knew that, but somehow, it still stung.

At least there were some missed calls and text messages from Rhodey.

_6:30 a.m. ‘A little bird told me you may need to talk. What happened last night?’_  
_7:15 a.m. ‘The little bird isn’t giving me much to work with. Call me when you’re up.’_  
_8:30 a.m. ‘Please don’t fuck with me, man. Tell me you’re okay.’_  
_9:02 a.m. ‘I’m in D.C. right now. You in Philly? I can pull some strings if you need me.’_  
_9:45 a.m. ‘Alright asshole. Where are you staying? You’d better be prepared to put me up when I get there.’_

Tony started to chuckle, and as the laugh broke on his lips, his eyes prickled and welled up. An aching sob choked out the laugh, mercilessly sending it to its death. _Fuck everything._ With effort, he reined it in. “Stop. Just stop. You can’t do this right now.” Sniffling, he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. _What is that breathing thing Bruce taught you? Inhale for… five seconds? Seven? Fuck if I know._

He picked up his phone again, and tapped out a response. _‘You flying? I can send a car to the airport.’_

It was lunchtime when James Rhodes was dropped off at the tower, and escorted to the gilded elevator doors, where he was told he was expected in the penthouse. He found Tony in his bedroom, nursing a glass of scotch. A small, black velvet box sat on the pillow beside him, and an open suitcase lay over a heap of what could only be Steve’s clothes on the floor at the foot of the bed. Tony had a tablet in his lap, and appeared to be studying the layout of one of the bedrooms in Avengers Tower.

“Nice place. Any chance we could let a little light in?” He dropped a duffel bag on the floor, and handed over a box of donuts. “I know how you like sprinkles when you’re feeling low.”

“You’ve always been good in a crisis.” 

“Oh, I know it.” With an eye on the ring box, Rhodes gently turned the pillow to make room for himself, and sat down, leaning against the headboard. He gave his old friend an affectionate elbow to the ribs. “Okay, so tell me what the hell is going on, Tones. You’re sitting here, in the dark, in the middle of all this mess, doing your liver zero favors.”

Tony opened the box of donuts and grabbed one, taking an enormous bite which left multicolored sprinkles stuck to his lips and beard. After washing it down with a gulp of scotch, he brought his friend up to speed on the essential details, in a deluge of disjointed details, from patriotic landmarks to engagement bands to Philadelphia’s gay nightlife to something about Sam Wilson “obviously having it in for” Tony, zig-zagging back and forth as random moments and injustices asserted themselves in Tony’s mind. He wrapped up with a deflated, “And now Nat thinks I’m mean.”

“The assassin thinks you’re mean.” 

“See, I don’t know if that makes it better or worse, when you put it like that.”

Rhodes had helped himself to a donut by now, and was chewing appreciatively. “Okay, but Tony, I have to ask you something. I’m not saying Steve couldn’t have handled this better. He could, and should. But… do you really believe he’d throw you over for this guy?”

“Have you ever been around when he talks about Barnes?”

“He’s a little obsessed, I’ll give you that.”

“I don’t like it.” Tony frowned. He knew he sounded petulant, and didn’t care. “I don’t share well.”

“I know you don’t. You’re like Bette Midler in Beaches. You need all the love for you.” 

Tony narrowed his eyes at his friend. “You know how much I hate that comparison. Pepper says that to me when she wants to get under my skin.”

“I know, but you hating it doesn’t mean it isn’t a little bit true.”

“If I could travel in time, you know what I’d do? I’d go back and prevent the production of that goddamn movie.” With a long-suffering sigh, Tony picked up the ring box. He popped it open and glared at the ring, as though it were entirely to blame for his current state of melancholy. Snapping it shut, he tossed it onto the rumpled comforter. “Besides, what’s so wrong with wanting to be the most important person in Steve’s life? He’s mine.”

“Is he? Because that story you told me sounded like you kicked him the fuck outta here last night.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Then tell me how it was. How it is. I want to help you, Tones, I really do.”

With a peevish scowl, Tony took another donut. “I was going to ask him to marry me.”

“Aw, man, I know. That’s rough.”

“No, it’s not _rough_. It’s… tearing my guts up. It’s fucking with my head.” He swallowed a mouthful of scotch. “I couldn’t see straight. After I saw him, I mean. Looking at Barnes.”

Rhodey nodded. “Have you tried calling him?”

Tony gave his best friend the most intense side-eye he had ever managed. “I’m still wearing the same clothes I wore last night. I’ve been sitting here in the dark, trying to figure out why I’m like this. Those donuts are the first food I’ve had since that fucking art museum. Do you know I’m pretty sure I ate a beet-flavored macaron? Last night. I hate that. I thought it was red velvet until I put it in my mouth. I had that beet taste in my mouth when I saw them together, which, let me tell you, is not a taste I want to be dealing with in the midst of an emotional crisis. My _life_ right now is a beet-flavored emotional crisis.” His voice broke, and he set aside a half-eaten donut, aggressively scrubbing the sprinkles from his face. “I just… I just need you to help me fix this.”

Rhodey stood up. “Okay. First order of business. Put that glass down. That shit’s not helping. You need to take a shower. Brush your teeth. Put on some clean clothes. After that, we’ll get some lunch, and figure this thing out.”

**********

After making himself presentable, Tony felt marginally more rational. For approximately 25 minutes.

“You know, the problem with cell phones is that you can’t help but notice the silent treatment.”

“Unless you’re ready to be the one to say something first, put it away.”

With a _“you can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do”_ look on his face, Tony set the phone aside, face up. “Just in case.” He picked up the menu and sighed. “I hope they don’t have beets here.”

“I’m starting to think those beet things were more traumatic to you than the actual encounter with Barnes.”

“You have no idea.”

Tony’s phone buzzed, and he snatched it up. “Avengers alert. Looks like they don’t need me, but--” It began to ring. With trembling hands, he answered. “Steve.”

“Did you see what Nat just sent over?” All business. _Of course. This guy and his work ethic._

“Yeah, I was just looking at that. Seems like the crew in New York should have it under control, unless you think they need reinforcements?”

“It’s not that I don’t trust their abilities. They’re a solid team. I just--”

“It so happens I have a helicopter here. We could be heading back to New York in half an hour, if you think they need us.” Tony tried to modulate the grateful note of hope in his voice.

Silence. Breathing at the other end of the line. Then, softly, Steve said, “I was thinking maybe just me.”

“Oh.” Tony’s face fell. He hesitated, then ventured, “Just you? No other... traveling companions?”

A loud sigh. “Can we not talk about this right now?”

“It was a simple question. For flight considerations.”

“It was you prying into something that you clearly cannot be rational about. Something you’re overly invested in.”

“Overly invested?” Tony’s temper flared. “What exactly have these last few years been to you, that my investment in you is considered too much?”

“These last few ye--” Steve stopped himself. Deliberate, even breathing. “Last I checked, you broke up with me last night. So whatever investment you think you have a right to was terminated then.”

“Jesus, Steve. That wasn’t a breakup. That was me, feeling grossly humiliated and deceived, asking for accountability from you.”

“That wasn’t a breakup? You hurled accusations at me and threw me out.” There was a hitch in Steve’s voice, then more breathing. “Fine. Let’s be perfectly clear about something. _This_ is a breakup.”

“Let’s not do anything we’re going to regret.”

“A little late for that, don’t you think?” The line went dead.

“Goddammit, I wanted to be the one to hang up first.” Tony tossed his phone onto the table, glaring at it. Moments later, he picked it up again, and tapped out a text to Natasha, swearing under his breath. 

_‘S.N.A.F.U. Sending Cap & likely +1 home to you. Unless you need me, I’m staying here for a few days.’_

_‘Take some time, cool off, but use your head. This is far from irreparable. Stop fueling the fire.’_

_‘That’s hard for a mean man to do.’_

_‘I was giving you shit. Thought you’d respond in kind, shellhead. You usually do.’_

**********

“I swear, I never thought I’d live to pay three dollars a pound for apples. What are they made outta these days? You better believe when I eat an apple, I’m eatin’ it down to the seeds, after layin’ out that kinda cash for it.” Bucky tossed an apple stem into a trash bag, shaking his head.

“Gotta pay people to raise ‘em, Buck.” 

“Nope. Apples just grow. They do that all by themselves. Why d’you think that Newton guy got conked by one? That apple just grew ‘til it got too fat to hang on a skinny little stem anymore.”

“I sure don’t remember learning it that way in school, but maybe I was out sick that day.”

“That’d be the safest bet in the world, pal. Pick a day, any day, back then. _Where’s Steve?_ My money’d be on _out sick_.” Bucky was stuffing a few articles of clothing and a stack of notebooks into a beat-up backpack. He looked around his tiny apartment for anything else he might need, then grabbed a pair of hiking boots and started pulling them on. “You know, I’m supposed to be working tonight. They’re gonna fire me if I don’t show.”

“I told you, Buck, I’d just feel better if I knew you were okay. You seem better than the last time I saw you--”

“When I tried to kill you.” His voice was flat, his eyes impassive, as though it were commonplace to make off-hand references to an attempted assassination between friends.

“That wasn’t you. Not really. And hey, you haven’t tried to kill me yet today.” Steve gave his friend a philosophical shrug, then shook his head. “I just don’t want to go back to New York for a couple of days and come back and find you’ve taken off on me.”

“I told you, I’m done runnin’. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll come to New York for a few days.” Bucky glanced in a mirror and ran his hands through his thick, dark hair. “Do you have a place of your own there? Nicer than that rat trap we had in Brooklyn?”

“A cardboard box would be nicer than that place. Half the time we didn’t have hot water.”

“I thought you were gonna croak, tryin’ to wash your skinny ass in that cold water.”

“I’m pretty sure I came close, a couple of times.” A wistful smile flitted over Steve’s face, disappearing as quickly as it came. “Anyway. Yeah. It’s a lot nicer than that. As much hot water as you want. And good people there. Friends.”

Bucky slipped into a jacket, shouldering his backpack and leading the way out of the building. “So wait. You have your own place, or you live with friends?” 

“Both. Well, it’s just… it’s complicated right now.”

They climbed into the taxi, and Steve gave the driver instructions, then sat back, staring out the window, deep in thought. 

Bucky pulled out his phone, and called over to the bar, apologetically explaining that a family emergency had come up, so he’d need someone to cover his shifts for at least a few days. “If I’d _known_ an emergency was gonna come up, I’d have absolutely let you know ahead of time. But then it wouldn’t have been much of an emergency, would it?” He listened and nodded and chuckled warmly a few times, then thanked them for understanding. He shoved the phone back in his pocket, and looked at Steve, expectantly. 

Steve looked back at him. “What?”

“I’m just wondering when you’re gonna talk to me about what the fuck is going on in your life.”

Steve glanced at the taxi driver, who was peering at them in the rearview mirror, then looked at Bucky. “Uh, I’m not sure I--”

“Last night. You and that guy. I just don’t know if you want me to drag it out of you, or let you stew.”

Steve didn’t answer, so Bucky shrugged and changed the subject. He began regaling Steve with stories of his adventures as a bartender, which always seemed to end with, “...so this guy gives me his number, and I stick it in my pocket, with all the others. I ain’t got the heart to flat-out reject ‘em; at least, not when I’m raking in tips.”

Steve paid the driver, and they boarded the helicopter, emblazoned with the Stark Industries logo. He was anxious to get back to the city, to do something, anything, to feel like he was doing some good. Soon they were cleared for takeoff, and flying over the city. Steve couldn’t help but look out the window as they flew over the historic neighborhoods, his eyes drawn to the pale Art Deco tower on Washington Square. He wondered if Tony was holding up okay, or if he was indulging all his most self-destructive impulses for drink and risky behavior. Steve realized with more than a little disappointment in himself, he wasn’t sure which he was hoping was the case. 

“So, I guess I should tell you about Tony.”

**********

After lunch, Tony drove back to the tower in silence, grateful that Rhodey knew him well enough not to push right now. Tony’s feelings were raw and too exposed, and everything was too bright. Every time he thought about Steve, a physical pain wrenched at his gut, and he wondered if he had an ulcer, or maybe a tumor or something.

He felt as though he couldn’t find a stable footing to look at things rationally. His head was pounding. He was going to need something potent for it, possibly alcohol (which would make Rhodey frowny-faced and _really disappointed, man_ ), or maybe a medically-induced coma (just a mild one, to take the edge off). Either way, this day was well on its way to being an unrivaled shitshow, and it was only mid-afternoon. 

This time yesterday, Steve was looking at him like he was the center of the universe, and whispering provocative things to him at Independence Hall. _Yeah, no, not helpful._ Tony shoved the thought aside. It was probably definitely a tumor.

**********

“Wait, hang on. Howard, as in, the fondue guy?” Bucky scratched his head.

He was not at all surprised by Steve’s admission that he’d been involved with a man. He’d known Steve too long, shared living space with him for chrissakes. Bucky had always wondered whether “waiting for the right partner” was Steve’s euphemistic way of trying to explain himself even back then. He’d seen Steve’s sketchbooks, hidden in a file box in the closet. Most guys his age would’ve been drawing pinup girls and tits, but Steve seemed to draw a lot of shirtless guys from the shipping docks, and movie stars like Clark Gable and Cary Grant. 

“That’s how you remember him? Fondue?” Steve gave him a companionable shove. “I’m never gonna live that down.”

Bucky’s eyes clouded, but then he nodded. “I mean, there’s other stuff, too. But you gotta admit, the fondue is pretty memorable.”

“Remember that time we saw Howard at the expo?”

“Sure I do. That flying car was a real stinker.”

Steve chuckled. “Not all his inventions were like that. He had some successes.”

“Like you.”

“Technically, Howard had some help with that.” 

“And then he got married and made a boyfriend for you.” Bucky grinned. “Technically, I guess he needed help with that, too.”

“It’s really weird when you say it like that.”

“That’s because _it’s really weird_ , Stevie.”

Steve laughed, the first real laugh he’d had all day. How could he argue with that? Everything about his life now was unusual, to say the least. The long, icebound gap in his life’s story, fighting with the Avengers, battling aliens and shadowy organizations bent on world domination, being reunited with his metal-armed, Russian-speaking, super-soldier best friend from childhood… With all that going on, dating his old friend Howard Stark’s genius son - technically over fifty years Steve’s junior - wasn’t even close to being the weirdest. 

With a wry smile, he offered an amendment. “Well, it’d seem less weird if you knew Tony.”

“Maybe. He’s got the right look, that’s for sure. Your type.” Bucky peered at Steve. “Except you two broke up, right? That’s why you showed up at my door, lookin’ like someone stole your lunch money?”

“Yeah, I guess we did.” Steve looked at his watch, then looked back out the window.

Bucky unzipped his backpack and dug around in it for a minute. Extracting a notebook and pen, he flipped through it, reading a couple of pages with a hint of a frown. He wrote something down, and folded the corner of the page. After returning the notebook to his backpack, he crossed his arms around it, hugging it to his chest. “Are we there yet?”

**********

“So, I think I’ve figured out your problem.” Rhodes was sitting with one elbow on the back of the couch, facing his friend. Tony had the tv on, watching the news (at least in theory) while working on something on his tablet.

“If you tell me my problem is me, I’m going to be extremely cranky.”

Rhodey chuckled awkwardly. “Yeah, about that… I’m not saying it’s you _per se_ …”

“Oh boy, this sounds like an impending life lesson.” Bright-eyed and obnoxiously eager, Tony picked up the remote and muted the tv. “Hold on, I’d better take notes. Have you seen my #2 pencil?”

“That defensive shit isn’t useful, man. You asked for my help, remember?”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry.” Tony wiped the expression of feigned interest from his face and turned toward Rhodey, mirroring his pose.

“You’ve been good, better than good, these last few years. You’ve been happy, Tony. I’ve been happy for you. The thing is… you are the king of self-sabotage. I’ve watched you tank some really good things in your life, over and over. I thought maybe you’d worked through that, though, when you and Steve got together.” 

“Fascinating. For the life of me, I don’t remember begging Steve to spend two years lying to me about his quest for the fucking Holy Grail.”

“No, you didn’t. And I’m not saying he did the right thing. He should have been upfront with you about all that.” 

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ here.”

Rhodey counted to ten under his breath, reminding himself his friend was going through a rough time. “BUT. The first real challenge that comes along, you toss him out. How the hell would _for better or for worse_ work out, if you flip your shit at the first hint of _worse_?”

Tony wrinkled his nose, annoyed. “Surely, we can agree this was an extraordinary circumstance?”

“Isn’t everything, with you and him? His entire existence is extraordinary. So’s yours. Right?” Rhodey paused, searching Tony’s face as though it would yield some clues as to what was going through his brilliant but muddled mind, then forged ahead. “The thing is, I’m not sure you know what you want. I mean, how long have you had that ring, and not said the magic words?”

“I was looking for the right moment.”

“You’ve been involved with him for how many years now? You’ve probably watched lots of moments fly by, and you’ve done jack shit about any of them.”

“A person doesn’t propose to Captain America without a bit of thought and preparation. I wanted it to be perfect.”

“I’ve seen how you two idiots look at each other. What else does the moment need?”

“Steve deserves--” 

“Hang on a second.” A light seemed to go off, and Rhodey laughed to himself. He looked at his friend with eyes full of stern, _get-your-shit-together_ compassion. “What about you? What do you deserve, Tony?”

Tony was about to say something, then closed his mouth. “I hate it when you’re right.”

**********

_‘Minimal damage, no civilian casualties. Shawarma time. Guess who suggested that?’_ A picture loaded, with Natasha in the foreground, her teeth tearing at the edge of a pita stuffed with vegetables and shawarma. The rest of the team could be seen laughing and eating in the background. Steve was sitting with his hands in his lap, an untouched plate full of food on the table before him.

Tony refused to acknowledge how gratified he was by the miserable look on Steve’s face. _Maybe it’s not too late._ He was debating sending him a message when another message came in from Natasha. 

_‘Hate to ask this but… thoughts on where to put the +1? I was thinking that guest room down the hall from me.’_

Tony gritted his teeth and tapped out a testy response. _‘Ask Cap. Hasn’t he already called dibs on Barnes’ sleeping arrangements?’_

_‘Want me to ask him if they’re going steady? I could slip him a note during algebra. Or better yet, you could ask him yourself.’_

Tony pulled up the Avengers Tower floor plan, and tapped the room Natasha wanted to use for Barnes. It was a solid choice, for a number of practical, security-related reasons, based on the little he knew of his background. For a moment, Tony wondered what exactly she knew that he didn’t. He sent a quick response. _‘You picked that room for a reason, didn’t you? What do you know about what they did to Barnes?’_

_‘This is not a conversation I’m having right now, over text.’_

_‘Put him in that room. But I need you to call me later tonight.’_

It was late when his phone rang. Rhodey was in bed, and Tony had spent the last hour fidgety and wanting a drink. He wasted no time on pleasantries as he picked up. “I need you to tell me why you picked that room for Barnes. Do you believe he poses a threat? He looked fine when I saw him.”

“You weren’t looking at him as a human being. You were looking at him as competition.” 

“Ridiculous.”

“If it’s so ridiculous, why are you and Steve not talking?” Natasha was characteristically dry in her delivery.

“Because Steve lied to me.”

“Yes, about Barnes, who you see as your competition.”

“Semantics. I need--”

“Fine. Yes. I think he could still pose a threat. Not willingly. But if something were to set him off? He could do some damage. I haven’t figured out what the triggers might be, but I don’t think he’s in the clear yet.”

Knowing he was tipping his admittedly-shaky-and-already-obvious hand, Tony asked, “Do you think he would hurt Steve?”

“If so, it wouldn’t be him.” She hesitated, her voice taking on her most professionally calming tone. “I’m keeping an eye on him. You know I’m not going to let anything happen. If you need a few days yet, take the time you need. We have him in a room we could lock down, if necessary.”

He didn’t want to go back to New York yet. He wanted to stay here, where he didn’t have to answer to anyone. Everything in him craved solitude and space, except for the gaping wound in his heart that craved only Steve. Despite the lies, despite Barnes, despite everything. The thought of Steve being caught off guard, possibly hurt, or worse... “God damn it.”

Tony could swear he heard her smirking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SNAFU = Situation Normal, All Fucked Up.


	5. End of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they were kids in Brooklyn, Bucky liked to tell Steve, in his most philosophical tone, “It’s an insult to the leaves, not to give ‘em a good stomp. They need an audience for their death rattle.”
> 
> or... a chapter in which consciences are pricked, consequences are damned, and leaves are thoroughly crunched.

_“Two years, Steve. Two. Fucking. Years.”_

Steve perched on the edge of the bed he and Tony had shared in Avengers Tower for the last few years. He was exhausted, and had retreated to the bedroom to escape the prying jests and concerned glances of his friends. He thought he would feel better in here, alone in a space he’d called home. Instead, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was an intruder, with no business being here.

After the mission earlier, when he and the team returned to the tower, Steve considered packing his things and moving into one of the spare rooms. Maybe he’d be asleep by now if he had. But the rest of the team were hanging out in the common area down the hall from his bedroom. He didn’t think he could face their questions or scrutiny tonight, and definitely didn’t want to talk about it. 

The only people who really knew what was going on were Sam and Natasha. Sam, in his relentlessly supportive way, had quietly expressed some discomfort with the way things had played out, but assured Steve he had his back. Nat wasn’t saying much, but that wasn’t entirely unusual. She’d subtly commandeered Bucky into a game of Scrabble with Clint and Wanda. Bucky didn’t seem to mind.

Most of the team seemed to assume he and Tony had a minor squabble, and that Tony would show up with a bottle of wine and a _mea culpa_ , and that would be the end of that. For reasons he couldn’t entirely place, it rankled at Steve. They were being supportive, in their way. That was a good thing, right? He’d excused himself, pleading exhaustion, and spent the rest of the evening holed up in the bedroom, too agitated to sleep. He would move tomorrow, when the Avengers weren’t assembled right outside his door, waiting to make clever remarks. 

No matter how hard he’d tried to do the right thing, everything felt wrong. It wasn’t just the breakup. It was something in him. He wasn’t physically ill, of course. That never happened anymore. But… off. Unsettled. Twitchy and ill at ease, as though his skin were too tight.

Nothing productive could come of his bone-tired ruminations, he knew that. Heck, he’d told himself that at least a dozen times since locking himself in here. But he was powerless to interrupt the incessant loop playing in his mind. 

_“...I’ve spent the last few years telling myself I could trust you...”_

He didn’t want to think about Tony. His heart seized at each remembrance of the dejection in Tony’s eyes, vivid with the aching loneliness of his shattered trust. Over and over, he relived the anguish and outrage he’d felt under the searing gaze of Tony’s judgments, hating Tony for making him feel like this. And yet, dwelling on the ugliness hurt less than the creeping thoughts of loving and being loved by Tony. Echoes of intimacy whispered cruelly to him out of the silence of this shared space they’d called home. 

_“I’ve gotta be honest with you, Steve, it’s killing me, behaving myself around you.”_

The night of their first real date, after their initial, tentative admissions of attraction, they wound up in here. In the years since then, with the focused, keen mind of a scientist, Tony exhibited a gleeful fascination with testing the limits of Steve’s carnal appetite. Steve never minded the attention, especially when those dark brown eyes were fixed on him with mingled lust and delight. After countless missions together, on good days and bad, after squabbles and traumas of every imaginable sort, they’d always ended up here, in each other’s arms. 

Stripping to his boxers, Steve curled up on his side of the bed, pulling the blankets up over his shoulder. Hugging Tony’s pillow, he hated himself for thinking about him. He hated himself for wondering what Tony was doing. The empty darkness of their bedroom, which had been a place of such abiding love, now seemed oppressive. The solace he’d known within these walls wasn’t just elusive tonight. It was gone.

**********

It was always the same. Until it wasn’t.

 _The sky was ripped wide open, lending a terrifying immediacy to space and its denizens, swarming over the surface of the Earth. The smoking rubble of once-great cities lay in disarray in the darkness, littered with the charred remains of humanity. Tony stumbled through the mess, eyes red-rimmed from smoke and tears, searching for something… no, someone. There, a dingy glint of color, a shattered shield that evoked love and panic and a fleeting agony of hope in the midst of this desolation._

_“No. It’s not too late. It can’t be.”_

_He ran to it, his heart in his throat, pushing aside broken cinder blocks and twisted steel, feverishly digging through the mess. He couldn’t remember why he was here, why he was fighting. He couldn’t remember who he was fighting, or why he always ended up here. But then there were blue eyes staring up at him from a broken body. He knew those eyes, loved those eyes, even as they accused him._

_“Why didn’t you do more?”_

_“I did everything I could, I--”_

_“Tony…”_

_“Please don’t do this. Not again. I can’t. Stay with me--”_

_A grim, joyless laugh drowned him out. He looked up and saw a man in black, holding a sniper rifle in his silvery metal hand. Without a word, the man took aim, firing a single, devastating shot. Tony fell backward, landing with a strangely soundless jolt. Overhead, the stars were being snuffed out, one by one. That was his fault, for reasons that escaped him. A booted foot rested on Tony’s chest, pressing uncomfortably on his arc reactor. With familiar blue eyes, a blond man stared down at Tony, then lowered himself to straddle his torso._

_Tony moved his mouth, straining to produce sound. “Wait, you were… dead? How…?”_

_Tenderly, the blue-eyed man caressed Tony’s face, stroking a thumb over his lips before leaning down to kiss him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tony remembered being shot. He should have bled out from the wound, and wondered why he wasn’t dead yet._

_Death could wait. Kissing him was preferable. This was where he belonged._

_The kiss turned aggressive. Hungry. Dangerous. Hard to breathe. Tony tasted blood, and pulled away, gasping for air. Full red lips stained with Tony’s blood drew back into a feral grin that seemed at odds with wholesome features. The beautiful blond sat back, his full weight resting on Tony’s body. He licked the blood off his lips, savoring the moment, then raised a red and blue shield overhead. With a wink and a smile, he brought the edge of the shield down on Tony’s exposed throat._

Tony was really fucking tired of nightmares. He was tired of his otherwise brilliant brain turning on him when he just wanted to sleep. He was tired of waking up like this - heart racing, struggling to catch his breath, emotions stirred up by something that wasn’t real, overwhelming him and leaving him feeling shattered and panicked.

The bedroom was too warm, and he was tangled in too many blankets. Fumbling in the dark, Tony found his phone on the bedside table, seizing it with trembling fingers. 3:12 a.m. Too late to wake Rhodey from his beauty sleep.

He was tempted to call Steve. But what would he say? _“Hey, I know we broke up, but I just dreamed that you and your new boyfriend took turns murdering me.”_ Yeah, no. Nothing good could come of that. Steve didn’t need tonight’s “Tony’s scumbag brain is at it again” report.

Padding softly out to the living room, he poured whiskey into a glass tumbler. “Just one,” he whispered to an empty room, “to take the edge off.” The familiar burn of whiskey grounded him in the present, washing away the remnants of night terrors. 

When things were good, and life was relatively calm, he could go for weeks without his mind revisiting the horror Wanda had planted in him before she’d joined their team. She had a gift, he had to grant her that. She knew exactly the buttons to push, and she’d pushed them with impressive, ruthless skill. It had felt real enough to infect his thinking then. He still felt the shameful sting of responsibility for everything that followed that. But with Steve at his side, he’d done what he could to make peace, starting with forgiving Wanda and slowly working his way toward forgiving himself. The nightmares never went away entirely, but they came with a less brutal frequency than they once did. 

When things were… not good, his brain had a reliable habit of fucking with his attempts to sleep. Certain anniversaries tended to set it off, or foolish risks taken in the field by Steve, or a couple of really close calls with death… well, the nightmares were less frequent. Or they had been, anyway.

Tony finished off his drink, and set the glass on the bar. Everything was terrible right now, but he needed sleep.

**********

“Once was miraculous. Twice seems rather too much to believe.”

Peggy Carter was propped up on pillows, wondering eyes glistening as her gaze flickered back and forth between Steve and Bucky. She clasped Bucky’s hand in her soft, arthritic grip. “Look at you. As handsome and vigorous as when last we met.”

“I remember you,” Bucky said. After a moment’s thought, he added, “And a red dress.”

“Oh, that dress. Such an indulgence in a time of war.”

“Worth every cent.” Bucky flashed his most charming smile at her, and for a moment, the intervening years fell away. The three of them were young and strong, flirtatious and hopeful in the face of war. For a fleeting moment, everything fate had stolen from them was given back, by the simple bonds of friendship.

Peggy raised a self-conscious hand to her hair, smoothing it back. “I wish I’d known you boys were coming today. I must look a fright.”

Steve shook his head, beaming at Peggy with gentle fondness. The long years of her life showed in the delicate lines that covered her face, in her swollen knuckles, and in the soft grey and white cascade of her once-dark hair. Her eyes were still bright with intelligence, her steely spirit still crackling behind them. Yes, Peggy was old, very old, because she’d been allowed a normal life, and lived the hell out of it - something Steve fervently wished for himself and Bucky. The traces of her life’s experience written over her features served only to enhance her beauty in Steve’s eyes.

“So… to what do I owe this pleasure? And why haven’t you brought Tony?”

Bucky cast a sympathetic _“I told you so”_ glance at Steve, then squeezed Peggy’s hand. “I think we passed a little cafeteria on our way in. I’m gonna see if they have coffee.” He clapped a hand to Steve’s shoulder, then made his way out.

“What’s happened?” Her brow furrowed with concern. 

“Tony’s… fine. We broke up.”

With a sigh, Steve pulled a chair close to the bed. Choosing his words with care, he explained his search for Bucky, focusing on the importance of their friendship, hinting at the trauma his friend had experienced at the hands of HYDRA. Groundwork laid, he introduced the touchy subject of Tony’s jealous rage. Peggy was thoughtful through it all, occasionally giving his hand an encouraging pat. When he seemed to be done, she quietly murmured, “Oh Steve, I am sorry.”

“Me too. It’s not at all how I meant for things to turn out.”

“Of course not.” Peggy squeezed his hand. She sat up a little, adjusting the pillows to prop up a bit more. “When Tony was a child, he was such a precocious little thing… extraordinary genius, all tangled up with intense emotions. I was smitten the moment I saw him. I wanted nothing more than to spoil the boy.” 

Despite his complicated feelings about Tony, Steve leaned in. There were so few people about whom Tony spoke well, fewer still who’d managed to secure the kind of deep admiration he held for “Aunt Peggy.” Over their years together, he and Tony had visited Peggy several times. Steve always enjoyed hearing the stories they told of one another. His heart swelled with gratitude for the love this remarkable woman had given both of them over the years. “Between you and that Jarvis fella, he had a lot of love in his life.”

“Without question.” Peggy smiled wistfully, lost in nostalgic reminiscences. “Did he ever mention the time he and I had a little row? I think he was seven at the time. It was nothing really, but he refused to speak to me the rest of the evening. When I put on my coat to leave, he ran at me, sobbing and asking if I still loved him.”

Steve shook his head. “No, I think I’d remember if he’d told me that. Sounds just like him, though.”

“He can be mercurial. And insecure. But when he loves, he does it wholeheartedly.”

“You think I was wrong.” 

“Don’t be dramatic. Life is seldom so simple as right and wrong.”

“He doesn’t trust me, Peg. Is that simple enough for you?”

“Would you say that you’ve behaved in a trustworthy manner?” Peggy’s voice was quietly firm. “You are a good man, Steve. One of the very best. But you’re not infallible.” 

Setting his jaw, he looked away. “So you’re taking his side in this.”

“Nonsense.” She reached a frail hand toward his face, gently inviting him to meet her gaze. “Dearest. This isn’t about sides. This is about love.” 

Steve opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He didn’t know what to say. 

Peggy tilted her head to the side, her dark eyes penetrating Steve’s defenses, as they always had. “Is there any truth at all to Tony’s fears about your feelings for James?”

“Buck isn’t like that, he--”

“I didn’t ask if he feels that way about you. _His_ feelings are irrelevant to the issue of you and Tony. _Yours_ are not. So I’m asking you, Steve. Is your heart divided?”

He loved Bucky, without a doubt, and would do anything for him. For as long as he could remember, it was the two of them against the world. His loss, and the terrible burden of responsibility for it, had been devastating. Knowing Bucky was alive, and had a chance to build a new life for himself, meant so much. Steve felt he owed him a shot at a normal life. He could see how it would be easy for someone to look at his relationship with Bucky, and to mistake the layers and layers of feeling for something it wasn’t.

How could anyone know how adrift he was before Tony came along? That it was Tony’s clever words, his strangely snarky brand of support that charmed him into planting his feet in the 21st century? They couldn’t possibly realize how Tony’s dark, soulful eyes had built a warm and welcoming home for Steve. There was something that happened when he was at Tony’s side, something that made him feel more alive than he’d ever felt, before or after he’d gone into the ice. Tony made him feel stronger, more confident, more invincible than Erskine’s serum and Howard’s Vita-Rays ever had. Steve had been invited into a very exclusive world, a world built especially for him, by a prickly genius whose too-tender heart eschewed attachments, until it couldn’t anymore. Any risks they’d faced, they’d faced them together, and that had made everything in Steve’s life not just more bearable, but peaceful. Joyful. Complete.

Tony had spent the last few years making him feel like the center of his world. And in response, Steve had chosen to lie to Tony, to protect Bucky. He saw that now. It wasn’t what he’d meant to do at all. He’d told himself he wasn’t really lying, of course. But with Peggy silently interrogating him with that look of expectation, he recalled a phrase he’d heard in the Confiteor. _Quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo, opere et omissione…_ it was in that _omissione_ he’d failed not just Tony, but himself, and his ideals. _Mea maxima culpa._

Discerning his thoughts, Peggy offered him a fondly reassuring smile. “I’ve spent my life loving you and Tony, in different ways. I will always love the both of you, no matter how all this turns out.” 

“Everything’s a mess. I don’t see that changing.” 

“I have faith in you, Steve. Do what you know is right.” 

He looked up and saw Bucky leaning against the doorframe, drinking coffee out of a paper cup. Steve nodded at him, then rose from his chair, and pressed his lips to Peggy’s cheek in a soft kiss. “Thanks, Peg. I don’t know what I’d do without my best girl.”

They made their way outside, walking in silence. Bucky tossed his empty coffee cup into a trash can, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“I kinda overheard some of that conversation.”

Steve chuckled. “I know you did. You cast a very long shadow, Buck.”

“I’m sorry I messed things up for you and your guy.” 

“Don’t be. Right or wrong, I made choices. I have to live with them.”

They cut through the park, which was vivid with autumn color. Each breeze shook more leaves from the trees, as the season waned toward the cold dark of winter. They passed tourists clambering on statues, a dozen dog walkers lead by their eager charges, lovers kissing under crimson foliage, some kids tossing a football back and forth. 

As they reached the other side of the park, Bucky veered off the path to trample through some leaves. When they were kids in Brooklyn, he liked to tell Steve, in his most philosophical tone, “It’s an insult to the leaves, not to give ‘em a good stomp. They need an audience for their death rattle.” 

Stopping in the middle of a large, crunchy heap of gold and faded, rusty orange, he turned to look at Steve, his face guarded and serious. “How much do you know about the things I did?”

Steve had been braced for the inevitability of this conversation. He’d read the files. He’d seen the worst of it. But he was resolute in his opinion on the subject. “I know it wasn’t you. That’s all that matters.”

“It was and it wasn’t.”

“Buck, it doesn’t matter--”

With an edge to his voice, Bucky interrupted him. “I remember Howard. And his wife. _They mattered_.”

“Of course they did. Howard was our friend. I hate knowing the things they made you do to him. But what’s done is done.”

“That’s just it, Steve. It’s never done.” Bucky shook his head, his eyes bleak and tired. “It’s always there, waiting for me, when I’m tired or bored or just trying to have a nice, normal day. I got a crowd of ghosts followin’ me around, pal. It’s all in my head, but that don’t mean they’re not real.”

Eyes downcast, Steve sighed quietly. “I thought you were doing better.” 

“I’m not running around murdering people. I haven’t killed off any of your old friends lately, and haven’t punched the crap outta you. That’s better, right?” With a lopsided smile that didn’t reach his eyes, Bucky shrugged. “I’m just sayin’, maybe this time, you backed the wrong horse.”

“Don’t say that.” Steve frowned. His life was in utter chaos right now, and his heart hurt, but whatever else he’d done, he couldn’t regret trying to find his friend, trying to help him.

Shuffling very deliberately out of the pile of crisp leaves, Bucky rejoined Steve on the path. “You got any cash on you? I’m hungry.”

“Sure, Buck. There’s a Ukrainian place up here that makes cabbage rolls like your ma used to make.” 

“Believe it or not, that’s music to my ears, Stevie.”

**********

After several phone calls insisting he was needed in D.C., Rhodey reluctantly allowed Tony to drop him off at the airport. Tony had offered repeated assurances that he’d be okay. That would have to do for now. But he still reserved the right to worry.

“If I don’t hear from you first, I’ll call you tonight, just to check in.” Rhodey pulled him into a hug, patting Tony on the back.

“I know, Dad. Curfew check.” Tony rolled his eyes.

“Oh come on, Tones, I never said anything about a curfew, it’s--”

“You know, I wouldn’t give you such a hard time if you didn’t take the bait every single time.” 

“You’re damn lucky to have me, you know that, right?” Rhodey squinted at him. “I brought you donuts and everything, man.”

“You’re a treasure, James Rhodes.” Tony pinched his cheeks. “Best friend a guy could ever ask for, and I mean that. Now get on the plane.”

It had only been two days, but Tony had decided to go back to New York. He needed to have a booze-free conversation with Steve. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say, but whatever it was, it required a clear head. He regretted the hell out of his decision to stop for drinks the other night. His impulse control was notoriously scattershot, even without the influence of too many shots of whiskey. It was stupid, self-sabotaging behavior, and he wished he could call for a do-over.

The drive into the city was well-timed to avoid the worst traffic, and allowed him a little time to think. He was still hurt by what had happened. He knew he wasn’t wrong to feel that way. Two years of secrecy was a lot to process. He didn’t understand it. 

He couldn’t shake the thought that, in all that time, he and Steve had _loved_ one another. Maybe not perfectly, but he’d never met anyone who’d managed that. He’d loved Steve better and more truly than he’d loved anyone in his life. And deep down, he believed Steve reciprocated that love. That had to mean something.

There was, of course, the question of rebuilding trust. Was it even possible? He couldn’t answer that right now. He’d never found himself in this position before. In the past, betrayal of any sort meant closing a door, and never looking back. Maybe that made some sense. 

Obadiah Stane, surrogate father figure and business partner, had pretended to care about Tony, even while making arrangements to have him killed and steal his company out from under him. Tony could never have considered forgiving what Obi did to him, let alone ever trusting him again. He knew that much. Obi knew he was betraying Tony. He used Tony’s trust against him, in a premeditated and malicious way.

Steve Rogers wasn’t Obadiah Stane. If he was honest, Steve’s betrayal hurt more, cut deeper, made Tony feel so much more vulnerable, so broken… but even so, Tony knew it wasn’t deliberate. He couldn’t believe it was done out of malice or even a lack of caring. Knowing Steve as he did, he had to believe there was more to it. Would any of it ever make sense to him? Maybe not. But goddammit, he wasn’t ready to write Steve off as a villain. Whatever flaws Steve had were human failings, not intentional acts of evil.

He gunned the engine, weaving through traffic, suddenly eager to be home.

**********

“I… Sorry, I was just getting my things together. I’ll be out of your way in a few minutes.” Holding an armful of shirts on hangers, Steve stood awkwardly between the closet and the bed, where a half-filled suitcase lay open.

Tony stood in the doorway. He felt unprepared to see Steve just yet. He knew that was ridiculous - the whole point of driving back to New York was to see Steve. Still, he found himself floundering. “Take your time, I have some work to do anyway. I’ll be down in the lab.”

“Wait, Tony. Since you’re here, I mean.” Steve dropped the shirts into the suitcase, pressing them down with no concern for wrinkles. “I was hoping we could talk. It won’t take long, I promise. Then you can go work, or whatever.”

 _Breathe._ Tony’s trademark way with words had utterly abandoned him. He had never felt more vulnerable in his life. With no verbal skill at his disposal, nothing clever to say, he had no raw materials he could fashion into armor to deflect anything that might hurt him. But Steve was standing there, looking _like Steve_ , with his hair in that perfect swoop, wearing one of his stupid, adorable plaid shirts, and Tony couldn’t say no to him. So he nodded his reluctant assent, and took a seat at the foot of the bed, near the suitcase. 

Aware of Tony’s eyes on him, Steve self-consciously retrieved the rest of his things from the closet, dropping them into the suitcase until it was heaped with clothes. His shield was leaning against the dresser, next to a duffel bag and jacket. After double-checking for anything else, Steve zipped up the suitcase and stood it next to the duffel bag. He inhaled a few shaky breaths, forcing himself to make eye contact with Tony.

“I fucked up.”

Tony bit his lip, taken aback by this admission. “Excuse me, I’m not sure I heard you right. Language aside, that’s usually my line, isn’t it?”

Steve’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Yeah, well… I think you may just be more used to admitting it.”

“True. I am well practiced in the art of fucking things up.” Tony allowed himself a moment of hope. _Banter. Teasing. This is good. You can do this._

“So… I don’t even know where to start with this mess.” Steve sat down on the bed, next to Tony, his hands folded in his lap. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I think I said that exact phrase at least half a dozen times on my drive here.” Tony shifted position, pulling one knee up onto the bed as he turned to face Steve. 

“The other night, I told you your jealousy was the reason I lied. But that wasn’t the whole truth. I was afraid for Bucky. I still am. And I’m afraid for you.”

Unwilling to admit his growing trepidation, Tony quirked an eyebrow at this. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I know. But you will. And you’re not gonna like it.” He retrieved a folder from the duffel bag, and returned to his seat. “This is gonna sound stupid, but I told myself I was protecting you. I should’ve shown this to you two years ago. I wish to God I had. But I can’t hide this from you anymore.”

As Tony accepted the folder, his hands began to shake, despite his efforts to appear calm. With more levity than he felt, he asked, “Is it okay if I admit I’m starting to freak out a little, Steve?”

“I’ve made a mess of everything. I know this doesn’t change things between us now, but Tony, I’m not in love with Bucky. I never was.” Steve swallowed the lump in his throat. “I need you to understand that I never meant to hurt you. I really thought that I could somehow protect you, and protect Bucky, and keep both of you safe and happy. I’m sorry I let you down. You deserve better. You always have.”

Tony’s mind was reeling. He hadn’t expected an apology, and wasn’t sure what Steve meant about him deserving better. He was afraid to read the contents of the file in his hands. Whatever it was, it was bad enough to make Steve - the most decent, honorable person he’d ever known - lie to him for two years. 

He stared at the file for a minute, then set it on the bed, changing the subject. “So, what’s your plan? One of the other suites in the building, or…”

Steve cleared his throat. “I think I need to step away from things for a bit, clear my head. I allowed my judgment to be impaired by my feelings for you, and my feelings for Bucky. I conducted covert operations, using Avengers team resources, under your nose. I told myself I was doing it all for honorable reasons, but now I’m not so sure. I hurt you. I need a break, to figure out if I’m still the guy Erskine picked for Project Rebirth.”

“Ah.” His heart told him this needed to happen, was probably the best thing for both of them right now, but still. Tony desperately wanted to tell him to stay. _The Avengers won’t be the same without you, Steve. You, or your leadership skills, your terrible, tight shirts, your Glenn Miller record collection, and your earnest blue eyes._ “So... Brooklyn? D.C.?”

Steve shook his head. “Bucky has a job and a place in Philly. He’s offered to let me stay there for a bit. I can keep an eye on him, and make sure he’s not getting himself in trouble. And who knows? Maybe the change in scenery will do me good.”

There were so many things Tony still wanted to say, but he didn’t know where to begin. _Please, Steve. I’m sorry I was rash. I hate not waking up next to you. I’m sorry I blew up at you. I miss you. I’m sorry I assumed the worst of you. Please still love me. Please don’t go._ His heart was pounding in his chest, and he was trembling. He extended his hand toward Steve, aiming for a “sincere but mature and cool with this whole thing” vibe, knowing he was failing miserably even as he attempted it. 

“I hope Philly’s as good to you as it always was to me, Steve. If you need anything at all, my door’s always open.”

Steve looked at Tony’s hand, extended in a gesture of friendship. It seemed at once too casual and too dangerously intimate a touch, after the last few days. Reluctantly, he accepted it, then in a moment of impetuousness, clasped both his hands around it, then raised his eyes to meet Tony’s painfully intense gaze. They sat there, not moving, not saying anything, just looking at one another, feeling the warmth of simple physical contact one last time. 

With their hands clasped, Tony was relieved to note that Steve was trembling, too. He felt less foolish, less alone, somehow, knowing that. His vision blurred. Vainly, he tried blinking back the tears, swearing under his breath as they trickled down his cheeks. “Damn it.”

“Oh, Tone, please don’t cry.” Steve raised one hand to brush away Tony’s tears, his thumb gently stroking his cheek. Fervently wishing he could erase the pain he’d caused, he leaned closer, bringing his forehead to rest against Tony’s. 

It was almost too much to bear. Tony couldn’t move, couldn’t break away from the touch of the man he loved and was losing. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, goddammit. He finally managed a raspy, “I’m so sorry, Steve.”

“Don’t be,” Steve whispered, his voice choked with emotion. “When I thought I’d never belong anywhere, you made me feel like I had a home. No matter what happens, please be good to yourself, Tony. Please.” 

His concern, his sincerity, his goddamn kindness, was too much. Impulse control be damned. Tony pressed his lips to Steve’s, loving and hating him for all the joy and pain he’d brought into his life. He needed to taste him one last time, feel the warm strength of his encircling arms. 

Steve responded eagerly, his lips parting to receive Tony’s agonized, desperate kiss. He tasted salty tears on Tony’s lips, kissing them away until there was nothing but love and heat between them. Unbuttoning Tony’s shirt, Steve pulled him down onto the bed with him, hooking a leg over Tony’s thigh. The evidence of their mutual arousal was inescapable as Steve ground his hips against Tony’s. 

All thoughts of his reasons for leaving were set aside for the moment. All recollection of the secrets and lies that had torn them apart vanished, in the inescapable reality of how good, how right it felt to be here in this bed with the man he loved, the man he wanted more than anything. They both wanted this. They needed this. 

Steve’s hand roved over the provocative firmness of Tony’s arousal, eliciting an encouraging moan. He unbuttoned Tony’s trousers, easing them down his hips until his erection sprang free of its constraints. Still kissing him, he wrapped his fingers around Tony’s cock, giving it a few slow, teasing strokes.

“Oh my god, yes, Steve.” 

The aching need in Tony’s voice was intoxicating to Steve. He kissed his way down Tony’s neck and shoulder, biting him, sucking mouthfuls of bare skin. It would leave a mark, but he didn’t care. Something in him wanted to leave traces of this encounter, a love note written over Tony’s body, to be read later, after reality’s inevitable, heartbreaking intrusion.

Tony’s eyes fluttered closed as those full, familiar lips nibbled a winding but urgent trail from the spot just behind Tony’s ear, down his neck, across his chest, down his belly. Everything felt so right, so searingly good, he had no strength to do anything but lie there, allowing, inviting, begging Steve to do whatever he wanted.

Steve had always loved taking his time with Tony, savoring every intimate detail of his beautiful anatomy. Every scent, every taste, every texture, everything that made Tony his… he’d inscribed them in his heart as precious qualities, to be revered in these rites of love. He nuzzled the softness of Tony’s balls, inhaling deeply the rich, masculine scent of him. With reverence, he conducted an agonizingly thorough exploration of Tony’s erection, alternating gentle kisses and teasing flicks of his tongue. His velvet tongue lapped at a glistening bead of precum, before full lips wrapped around Tony’s cock, possessively drawing him in. 

It had only been a few days, but every stroke of Steve’s lips and tongue felt like the first in years. Tony never wanted it to end. This moment was perfect, Steve was perfect. Nobody else had ever sucked his cock like Steve, like he was taking holy communion or something. He didn’t care if it was blasphemous, he just loved the way it felt, being worshiped by Steve. Slow strokes and gentle suckling gave way to increasingly urgent ministrations, as Steve’s head bobbed up and down the length of Tony’s shaft. 

He tangled his fingers in Steve’s golden hair, inexplicably intensifying everything he was feeling, as though this additional point of contact closed a circuit. He was tingling from head to toe, ascending to a place that only existed for the two of them. Nothing else was real, nothing else mattered, nothing but exquisite delight in the all-encompassing sensations bestowed by Steve’s incredible mouth. With a guttural moan, his body spasmed under waves of intense pleasure, erupting hot and sticky in Steve’s mouth. Swallowing ravenously, Steve suckled and licked at him until Tony was ticklish and oversensitive. With one last, gentle kiss on his spent cock, Steve smiled up at him. 

Tony was lying there, debauched, his shirt undone, his pants half off, his member flaccid and content. There was something warm and open and loving in his expression, a look that invited Steve to come closer, to be loved and cherished. Steve wanted to curl up beside him, wanted to surrender to his invitation. He wanted Tony’s mouth on him, wanted his touch, wanted release. He began crawling up the bed, the lustful blaze in his eyes undimmed and ready to be stoked by his lover. 

As he drew up alongside him, eager to resume their kisses, his hand came to rest on the file he’d given Tony earlier. The file hidden from Tony for the last two years. With a sudden shock he was plunged back into cruel reality. The horrors contained in those pages, and the bitter pain of the truth hidden therein, were inescapable. He’d promised himself this wouldn’t happen. He needed Tony to know the truth, to understand everything, before this went any further. Gripped with shame, he pulled away.

“I’m sorry, Tone. I don’t know what came over me.” With effort, he rose from the bed, combing his fingers through tousled blond hair. Behind him, he could hear Tony roll off the other side of the bed, zipping his pants. “I shouldn’t have… I got caught up… that wasn’t fair to you.” 

Bewildered, Tony crossed the room, gently touching Steve’s arm. “Wait… what just happened? Did I do something wrong?”

Steve shook his head, his eyes welling up again as he turned to face Tony. “No. Not at all. But I have no right to this with you. Not now. You’ll understand, after you read that file.” 

“Just... stay. Please. A wise (but really old) guy I know once told me we could face anything, together.” Tony smiled hesitantly, then kissed Steve, his lips earnestly pleading his case. 

Steve allowed himself this one last kiss, cradling Tony’s face in his hands, even as he hated himself for needing him. He took Tony’s hand, giving it three deliberate squeezes, then turned away. With long, purposeful strides, he grabbed his bags and left without a word. His shield was still leaning against the dresser, abandoned.

“Goddammit, Steve.” Tony stood, dazed and weeping, in the middle of the room. “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! October's a crazy month for me. My birthday, plus some special trips I had planned, plus all sorts of spoopy activities, ate into time I meant to use editing this chapter. Apologies for the delay in getting this posted.
> 
> A few notes...
> 
> The Confiteor is a prayer of penitence, used in the Catholic mass, and other high liturgical church settings, in one form or another. The Latin phrase most people recognize from it is "mea culpa," which means "through my fault." "Mea maxima culpa" is "through my most grievous fault." "Quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo, opere et omissione" is usually rendered, "...that I have greatly sinned, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do..." (Minor technical aside: that is the updated version, found in the 1970 missal. Yes, Steve would have memorized the Tridentine rendering, but for artistic reasons, I opted for this one. To the purists, I offer a humble "mea culpa.")
> 
> One thing I should have noted previously: human beings are incredibly complex, and generally, pretty fucked up. Even the best, most decent among us, are going to fuck up. Badly. We don't always choose wisely, give perfect advice, love as truly as we should, or support our loved ones flawlessly. It should go without saying that, by writing about flawed humans, I'm not endorsing all their shitty choices. I'm just acknowledging that life can be a mess, and we can be messes, without being villains. I'm fascinated with the ways we manage to live, and love, despite our flaws. So if you read something that makes you angry at a character you usually love, that's cool. Maybe that's the point.
> 
> The boys still have quite a road ahead of them. As always, thanks so much for reading, and sticking with us so far. Hope your October is treating you well!
> 
> **Chapter title added 12/31/2017 - it comes from the gorgeous Matt Alber song of the same name. Look it up!


	6. When October Goes

Tony stood motionless, his unfocused eyes shedding tears in a slow, steady stream. His shirt hung open and rumpled over his bare chest. His mind was caught in a loop of incoherent attempts to make sense of what had just happened. The one clear thought that asserted itself, over all the unfocused babble in his mind was simple: this wasn’t how love was supposed to work.

“Hey.” Natasha stood in the doorway, knocking gently at the door frame. No response. She hesitated, then tried again. “Tony.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she stepped into the room, discreetly closing the door behind her. Slowly, she approached him, her voice calm and soft. “Tony… I saw Steve on his way out. Are you okay?”

With a start, he snapped out of it, suddenly registering her presence. “Jesus, you...”

Natasha said nothing, but offered a sympathetic frown. 

Self-conscious, Tony scrubbed a hand over his face. “Hold that thought. These contacts are killing me.” The absurdity of lying about contact lenses was not lost on Tony, but there was no point in contradicting himself now. He retreated into the adjoining bathroom, muttering and buttoning his shirt on the way. 

A few minutes later, he emerged, face freshly washed, and hair combed. Behind sleek, lightly tinted glasses, his shining eyes were still red, but no longer weeping. 

Natasha was seated cross-legged on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. The file was in her lap. Tony pursed his lips, then casually made his way toward the dresser. 

“You know that feeling when you’re on a date, and you’re _really killing it_ with the charm, and then you realize you’ve spent the last half hour with spinach stuck in your teeth?” He picked up Steve’s shield and disappeared into the walk-in closet with it. “This feels exactly like that, except with a lot more people staring at my teeth and wondering when I’ll realize I look like an idiot.”

“Nobody thinks that.” Natasha patted the bed. “Come. Sit.”

Tony grabbed Steve’s pillow, mentally correcting it to _The Spare Pillow_ , hugging it to himself as he took a seat.

“I assume this is about the file.”

Natasha nodded, setting it on the bed between them. “I gave that to Steve two years ago, to help him find answers, and maybe find Barnes. The only ones who knew about any of this were Steve, Sam, and me.”

“Sam, I figured already. Phone calls.” Tentatively, Tony rested his hand on the file. With exaggerated petulance, he added, “I feel mildly appeased, knowing Barton was left out of this little conspiracy. The idea of him being privy to my personal life was eating at me.”

“I thought that might help.” Her mouth twitched into a crooked smile, then resumed a carefully neutral aspect. Her tone was cautiously conciliatory. “This mess isn’t just on Steve. I backed his call.”

“He can be very persuasive. It’s the eyelashes. And all that ‘I punched Hitler two hundred times’ stuff.”

“Hard to argue with a centenarian.” She smirked. “And… I have reasons of my own for wanting to protect Barnes. Long story for another time.”

“One of these days, I’ll figure out that guy’s secret for inspiring such unwavering devotion. It’d be nice to be on the receiving end of that sometime.”

She gently touched Tony’s arm. “It was never done to hurt or deceive you.”

He set _The Spare Pillow_ aside, and picked up the file. As much as he wanted to get this over with, he found himself faltering as he thumbed the edge of it. 

“After you’ve read that, if you need me to step down, that’s your call. I’ll respect your decision. But if you want me to stay, I’m at your disposal.”

He cleared his throat. “Thanks, Nat.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Let’s see how you feel after you read that, okay?”

The file contained records pertaining to James Buchanan Barnes. Records from his military service during World War II, and disturbing details of his life after that, when he fell into the hands of HYDRA. Experiments, surgeries, mind-control conditioning with electric shock, lights, and sounds, all geared toward creating a perfect killing machine known as The Winter Soldier. They’d made a mockery of the work done in Project Rebirth, removing any concern for free will and consent from the equation, forcing bodily enhancements on him while robbing him of his identity. 

It was brutal stuff to read, but for the first time, he realized he was capable of feeling something other than seething jealousy for Barnes. He felt a swell of pity, punctuated by the too-familiar sting of shame. _All that petty bitching about a guy who’s been through hell._

Tony paused midway through it, shaking his head. “I don’t understand why you thought I shouldn’t see this. I’m self-absorbed, I know, but... what was done to him was horrific. If I’d had any idea...”

“Steve tried to tell you about some of that. But you weren’t ready to hear it.” Natasha drew her knees up, folding her arms and resting her chin on them. “You felt threatened. I get it. I do.”

Tony harrumphed quietly, pointedly ignoring her and resuming his read-through. “Oh, here we go. Assassinations. I’d put money on JFK, and that pope who died suspiciously - you know the one? But if he had something to do with Kurt Cobain’s death, he’s not invited to Thanksgiving with us.” He chuckled with grim satisfaction more than once as he worked his way through the pages that followed. “Aha. Called it.” 

His macabre amusement came to an abrupt end, as he turned another page and drew a sharp breath. Photos of Howard and Maria Stark stared up at him. His parents hadn’t died in a tragic car accident. They’d been targeted by HYDRA. Assassinated by the Winter Soldier. Murdered by Steve’s old friend Bucky. 

The color drained from Tony’s face, and a faint sheen of sweat glistened on his upper lip, as he stared at their faces. How was it almost twenty five years now? Twenty five years of grief, predicated on believing a lie. A car accident is impersonal, an infuriatingly banal reminder of the indifference of a chaotic universe. Nobody to blame, nobody to despise. Just a shitty but ultimately unremarkable twist of fate. 

But this… this was personal. Focused. Malicious. This brutal, unstoppable _thing_ had robbed him of his parents? They weren’t taken from him by an unfortunate roll of the dice. Their cause of death had a name, and human hands, and a handsome face. Suddenly, twenty five messy years of grief came into sharp focus. 

“All this time... you knew? Steve knew?”

Natasha hesitated, then offered a straightforward reply. “When Steve and I were on the run, we saw something in that bunker they blew up over our heads. The file just confirmed what Zola had shown us.” 

She softened her tone, meeting his gaze with surprising gentleness. “Tony. You already had more than your share of grief over losing them. We didn’t want to add to it.”

The file fell from his trembling hands, slipping off the edge of the bed and scattering photographs and pages of notes over the floor. 

“I know this is a lot to process.”

A shaky, caustic laugh bubbled up, and his voice took on a hysterical edge. “What’s to process? Steve’s BFF choked the life out of my mom. I’ve never been better.”

“You know James had no choice in any of this.”

“Of course. How could I forget? _Barnes_ was the victim here. Not my dead parents, and certainly not Little Orphan Tony.”

“Tony...”

He raised his hand in a plea for silence, and closed his eyes. _Breathe through it. In through the nose, right?_ His eyes flew open and he pointed toward the door. “Out. Please.”

“I don’t want you doing anything stupid--”

Without warning, Tony leaped up. He made it halfway to the bathroom before vomiting on the floor.

**********

The drive to Philadelphia was rainy and grey. Steve didn’t mind. He wanted to be miserable.

He’d hesitated to take the car. It was a gift from Tony last Christmas - a late 1940s model of Howard’s design, from his personal collection. It was in pristine condition, and ran like a dream, with features that were ahead of their time, thanks to Howard’s innovative mind. He loved the car, and everything it signified when Tony pressed the keys into his hand. 

_“Don’t worry, Steve. This one doesn’t fly, so you should be safe.”_

_“He never did get that flying car prototype off the ground did he?”_

_Loudly groaning, Tony laughed, despite his best efforts to appear unamused. “A pun. How droll. Howard would be so pleased.”_

_“For a guy who thinks he’s above puns, I can’t help but notice you’re still laughing.”_

_“I’m only laughing because you look so damn pleased with yourself.”_

 _“It’s nice that you humor me. Besides, my dumb joke isn’t why I look so pleased.”_

_Tony’s eyes had softened at that. “Merry Christmas, beloved.”_

It felt wrong, taking it now. Tony had given so much, so freely, but this felt like a gift he wouldn’t have given, had he known. Still. Steve couldn’t lug his suitcase and bags on his motorcycle. And as much as he wanted to punish himself for putting Tony through hell, he couldn’t expect Bucky to suffer along with him. So he’d loaded up the car, gritting his teeth and telling himself he’d bring it back later, with yet another apology.

Bucky kept messing with the radio, tuning up and down the dial, through static and bursts of song. He refused to leave it on the “sappy bullshit” station Steve seemed to prefer, but he couldn’t find anything that didn’t provoke Steve to either a heavy sigh or terse “really?” 

“How about this loud stuff? Everyone’s yelling and sounds pissed off. That oughta suit your mood.”

He knew what Bucky was doing, trying to shake him out of the malaise that had settled over him. He’d always been good at that. Steve chuckled half-heartedly. “I think they call that heavy metal.”

The radio station was full of songs Steve recognized from days spent in Tony’s workshop. He liked to watch him work, despite the loud, jarring tunes he said made it easier for him to think. It must have worked for him, because he’d get lost in his head for hours. Steve would sketch him, and occasionally, Tony would look up from his work, his eyes reflecting the shift from deep contemplation to the dawning realization that Steve was still there. A slow smile would creep over his features, and he’d saunter over, under the pretense of wanting to get a look at the sketchpad. 

Maybe taking this car was a mistake.

“Will you be okay on your own tonight? I checked in with my boss and they could use me at the club.”

“Sure, Buck.” Steve reached over and turned up the radio.

**********

Tony had a strict policy about garments and vomit. He didn’t like to be wasteful, but… he was a billionaire. And as a billionaire, he could afford to wad up a nicely tailored (but barfed upon) seven hundred dollar shirt and stuff it into the wastebasket like a used Kleenex. So he did.

He sat on the cool stone floor of the bathroom, with a wet washcloth over his eyes. An idle curiosity flitted through his mind. How had he thrown up that much, given how little he’d eaten over the last couple of days? As quickly as it occurred to him, he shoved it aside. It was a question to be left for another, less stomach-churning day.

He could hear Natasha, still in his bedroom, talking quietly to someone. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, but he assumed it was about him. Probably reporting to Steve. He could imagine the conversation, and the stoic look of concern on Steve’s face. His stomach clenched at the thought.

A quiet knock at the door. Bruce’s voice. “Tony? Is it okay if I come in?”

“It’s unlocked.” He tossed the washcloth toward the sink, sighing as it landed with a damp _splat_ on the floor. _I really need to work on my throwing arm._

The door eased open, and Bruce peeped in at him. “Hey. Natasha said you got sick. You look pretty rough.”

Tony wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that. He knew exactly what Bruce meant, though. He looked like he’d been in a fight. After he’d been sick a couple of times, and his shirt was in the trash, he’d looked in the mirror. Extensive, obvious hickeys bloomed all over his throat and torso. _Oh, that beautiful, talented fucking mouth..._ He was prepared for that much, at least. What he wasn’t prepared for were the broken blood vessels purpling the skin around his eyes. This happened to him once before, years ago, when he’d gone on a bender. His body, objecting to his apparent attempt at alcohol poisoning, forcefully rid itself of the offending substance, leaving a dense map of pinprick bruises clustered over his face for the better part of two weeks. 

“Thanks. _Petechiae._ I know.”

Bruce crouched down beside him, examining his face and checking his pulse. “You think you’re done yet? Natasha cleaned up the mess already, if you want to go back to bed.”

“Did she tell you about…”

“You and Steve? Not much. I don’t need details to know you’re hurting right now.”

Tony nodded, grateful. He didn’t want to talk or think about any of it. “You want to watch a movie or something?”

Natasha sat at the foot of the bed, looking at her phone. She had collected the scattered photos and pages of top secret horror, reassembling the documents in order while she waited. Without a word, Tony picked up the file, and took it to the closet, tucking it behind Steve’s shield. He drew a few steadying breaths, mentally closing a door as he stepped back into the bedroom.

Natasha looked up from her phone, blinking at Tony’s appearance. “You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

“If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing it _really hard_.”

“We’re still talking about you puking yourself into a case of raccoon eyes, right?”

He shrugged and pulled a faded Black Sabbath t-shirt over his head. He slipped out of his trousers, neatly draping them over the back of a chair. Natasha and Bruce looked at each other with exaggerated horror.

“What? I’m wearing boxers. Besides, at least one of you has seen more than this.” With a wink at Bruce, he crawled into bed. “What’s good on Netflix?”

Bruce blinked, momentarily flustered. “I, ah… I don’t know. What are you in the mood for?”

“Honestly? Ginger ale. With ice.”

“I don’t think Netflix has that.”

Natasha stood up. “Tell you what. You boys find something to watch. I’ll go get some ginger ale and crackers.”

She’d missed a call from Steve a few minutes ago. They must be in Philadelphia now. She grabbed a jacket, and called him on her way to the deli.

Steve picked up right away. “Nat. How did he take it?”

“It went about as well as could be expected. No violence. I got to clean up a puddle of vomit.”

“I’m sorry. I should have been there to deal with that.”

“You’re officially off duty. Focus on taking care of yourself for a change.”

Steve sighed. “Is he okay?”

“He will be. He got himself worked up. His face is all bruised up from it. Matches what you did to the rest of him.”

“Oh gosh, you saw that?” 

Natasha could practically hear him blushing.

“Impossible to miss,” she said dryly. “Bruce is with him now. They’re watching Star Trek.”

“That’s good. Listen, after his stomach settles, see if someone will run down the street to get him some matzoh ball soup. He likes that when he’s sick.”

“Technically, he’s not sick. He’s freaking out.”

“But you’ll still do it, right? I’ll feel better, knowing he’s ok.”

“You sure you don’t want to come back here to play nurse? We can trade. You can hover over Tony, and I’ll babysit Barnes for you.”

“I’m not babysitting him. I’m monitoring and assessing the situation.”

“As I said, babysitting.”

Steve ignored the teasing, his voice low. “I’m depending on you to keep an eye on Tony. I know he can be a handful. But this is always a tough time of year for him, even without...”

“I know. And I want him to get through this okay. You go relax. Take a bath, read a book, watch tv - anything. Just do something besides worrying about other people for a change.”

She promised to keep him posted on any major developments, and hung up. After a moment, with an unconscious smile on her face, she sent him a follow up text. _‘Seriously, though, if you decide you need a break, I can come out to keep an eye on Barnes. Tell him I said hey.’_

**********

Bucky threw a stack of folded sheets and a pillow onto the sofa. “Make yourself at home. There’s not a lot of food in the fridge. Pretty sure the milk’s bad.”

“It’s okay, Buck. I’m not really hungry right now.”

“Don’t be a dick to yourself. Eat something. If your metabolism’s anything like mine, you need to eat a lot. Right?”

Steve nodded, remembering Tony’s fascination with this aspect of his enhanced anatomy. “I guess so, yeah.”

“So help yourself to anything. Except for that milk.” Bucky grinned and grabbed his keys, heading to the door. “There’s a magnet on the fridge for a good pizza place.”

The door closed, and Steve drew a deep breath, slowly releasing it. After so much emotional intensity, sitting here now he felt a numb sort of sadness that lay like a lead blanket over him. 

With some effort, he picked up his suitcase and duffel bag, and carried them to the bedroom. Bucky had rearranged his dresser and closet to make room for him to unpack. It wasn’t a lot of space, but this was temporary, and better than living out of a suitcase until he figured out his next steps. 

It had only been twenty minutes since Bucky left. With all his clothes either tucked away in a dresser drawer or hanging neatly in the closet, Steve was out of useful busywork. He went back out to the living room. There was a small bookcase with an assortment of beat-up paperbacks, and an old tv in the corner. He turned it on, flipping through the few channels he could tune in, stopping on the reassuringly familiar face of Cary Grant in _Bringing Up Baby_. He’d seen this one a few times the year it was released. He’d even dragged Bucky to see it once, but of course, Buck brought a couple of girls with him. That turned out exactly as well as all the other “double dates” he’d attempted.

Steve picked up his sketchbook, and flipped through it. There were drawings of his friends, mostly during their unguarded moments at Avengers Tower. Natasha sparring with Sam. Wanda making a grilled cheese sandwich. Thor on one of the couches, cuddled up with his hammer and watching _The Incredible Journey_. Steve had focused on capturing the absurdly relaxed expression on Thor’s face. He was working on filling in details when Thor noticed him, and gravely declared it “a most excellent likeness.” 

There was a comical drawing of Clint as the Venus de Milo, armless, with his bow and arrows lying at his feet, and a look of consternation on his face. Natasha laughingly declared Tony a terrible influence on Steve, and asked if she could have the drawing, if Clint didn’t want it. That turned into an arm-wrestling match to determine the new owner, which turned into “let’s just go get dim sum, you guys.” So the drawing remained in the sketchbook.

Unsurprisingly, the face that dominated the pages of his sketchbook was Tony’s. From every angle, in every mood, posed and candid, clothed and decidedly unclothed. Tony working on a mathematical formula. Tony doing repairs on Dum-E in the workshop. Tony hunched over a box of donuts. Tony lying naked in bed, looking for all the world like the devil incarnate, with his hair mussed and his dark eyes inviting Steve to put down the pencil and join him. He was beautiful. 

Resolutely, Steve turned to a blank page. After staring at it for a few minutes, he picked up a pencil and started something new.

**********

It was always the same, especially lately. Well, mostly.

_The sky was black and filled with dimming stars. Alien powers moved over the Earth without opposition, surveying the destruction wrought by their ships. Tony stumbled over the rubble of what was left of Avengers Tower, looking for something… no, someone. His friends were all dead. Everything they’d believed, irrelevant. Everything they stood for, defeated. He was alone, and he couldn’t bear it._

_But then, a familiar face, signs of life, a glimmer of hope. Steve. Blue eyes, accusations, disappointment. Always disappointment. Blame. Death._

_Headlights. A car hurtles into view, pursued by a motorcycle. The car crashes into a tree that wasn’t there a moment ago. A man in black gets off the motorcycle. He moves with predatory efficiency, smirking as he slams his metal fist into the driver’s head._

_We could have had Christmas at home, like normal people, damn it. You could have wanted to spend Christmas with me. You could have at least left her at home with me while you did the same old shit._

_Suddenly the blond man is there, not dead (again), cradling Tony’s face in his hands. His eyes are the bluest Tony’s ever seen. He’s smiling and sincere._

_Steve. Kiss me. Just kiss me and make all of this go away. Please. He kisses the tip of Tony’s nose, and mouths, “I’ll be right back.”_

_He joins the man in black, and together, they approach the passenger door. His hands are on the woman’s throat. The man in black is choking her. They’re taking turns, they’re killing her. Tony can’t move, can’t scream, can’t look away. Her body goes limp, and the man in black returns to his motorcycle. Steve kisses him again. “I really do love you, remember that.” He rides away with the man in black, cradling Tony’s arc reactor against his chest._

_Tony’s knees buckle under him as his heart seizes. He’s going into cardiac arrest. Obi’s there, but then he’s not. Someone is laughing, saying his name, but the buzzing in his ears makes it impossible to focus._

The bedroom lights were on. Throwing a forearm over his eyes, Tony grumbled, “I don’t believe I requested a wake-up call.”

“It sounded like someone was killing you.” Natasha stood at the foot of his bed, clutching a bag of chips.

“No more than usual. I’m fine.” He peeped out at her from under his arm. “Were you lurking outside my door?”

“Kitchen. Needed a snack.” She rattled the bag of chips at him, then sat on the edge of the bed. She had her carefully composed _don’t mind me, I’m just scrutinizing the hell out of you_ face on. “You know, you don’t have to do this alone.”

“Do what? Have nightmares? That’s what my brain does. It’s nothing.” 

“How often do you have them?”

“Gee, I don’t know, Dr. Romanoff, I guess I’ve been neglecting my dream journal.”

“Alright.” She gave a half-shrug and stood up. “Guess I’ll let you get back to sleep. Night, Tony.”

He wrestled with the impulse to say something as he watched her walk to the door. The lights went out, and the door was almost closed when he sat up. “Did I ever tell you about the time I stole a garden gnome from someone’s yard?”

She stopped in the doorway. “You could buy all the garden gnomes in the world. Why would you steal one?”

“I was young and drunk. I did a lot of stupid things when I was young and drunk.”

“What did you do with it?” She left the lights off, crossing the room in the dark and taking a seat at the foot of the bed. 

“I walked to the cemetery and put it on Howard’s grave. I don’t know why. It made no sense when I tried to explain it to Obi later.”

“Maybe you just wanted to say hi.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I wanted to piss him off, disappoint him one last time. It was a little late for that, of course.” Tony sat quietly for a few minutes, lost in thought. “What you said before... about whether I want you to stay or go?”

Natasha nodded. “It’s your call, Tony. I know you need people you can trust.”

“Vibranium’s easier to come by.” He let out a humorless huff of breath, as he scanned his mind for the right words. “The team needs you. Especially with Steve gone.”

“Yeah, but… necessity aside. Are we okay?” 

He drew a shaky breath. Vulnerability was bullshit. It was slightly easier in the dark, but still bullshit. “Every time I’ve looked in the mirror since I found out the truth, I’ve had a reminder of why you would think you needed to protect me.”

“It wasn’t just me. The first thing Steve said to me, after he knew the full truth, was ‘This will kill Tony.’ You were his first thought. Not ‘We need to protect Bucky.’”

“Well, that was in there somewhere, I’m sure.”

“Sure. He’s capable of seeing lots of angles on an issue. That’s why he’s a good leader.” She thought for a moment, then added, “You’re capable of that, too, when you’re not emotionally compromised.” 

“Emotionally compromised, eh? Nice euphemism for ‘a fucking mess’.” Tony smirked in the darkness. 

“Try ‘understandably distressed.’ These last couple of weeks have been brutal.” She extended the bag of chips toward Tony. He waved it away.

“Is there any point in asking you to promise not to lie to me again?”

“I don’t _plan_ on lying to you in the future. But you know what my job entails.” She put a potato chip in her mouth, crunching thoughtfully for a moment. “I _can_ promise to always have your best interests at heart.”

Tony slid down under the blankets again, wrapping himself around _The Spare Pillow_. “I guess I can work with that.”

**********

The last days of October flew by in a whirl of brilliant color that couldn’t last, with chill nights that hinted at the coming winter.

Natasha and Bruce checked in regularly, offering to watch movies, bringing him his favorite foods. It was a little much at times, but they were trying, and despite his smartass remarks, Tony genuinely appreciated it. Natasha especially seemed to be making some effort to show support, making a point of keeping him in the loop on Avengers business. When she wasn’t hovering, she was leading training exercises with the team, allowing Tony some much-needed breathing room to try to attain something resembling equilibrium.

A Halloween cocktail party at the tower - planned months ago, when Tony thought they’d be celebrating their engagement - gave him an excuse to leave his bedroom and pretend to be something other than a complete disaster, if only for a few hours. 

It was supposed to be a costume party. That was Steve’s request, when they’d scheduled the party. Of course, Steve wasn’t here to fawn over him and tell him how handsome he looked, so this was all bullshit. Gritting his teeth, he threw on a black cloak and declared it a vampire costume. 

After helping himself to a Bloody Mary, he drifted around the room, occasionally managing to appear interested in Halloween-specific conversations. Clint, dressed as a zombie, threw out a question to the room, opening it up for debate. “Who would win in a fight? Dracula or Frankenstein?” 

Tony rolled his eyes. He lived for this shit. “Obviously Dracula, seeing as _Frankenstein_ was just a mad scientist. He’d have no power to resist Dracula’s glamour, let alone the strength required to fight him off.”

“Damn it, Tony, you know I meant the monster.”

“Then _say_ ‘Frankenstein’s monster.’ It’s literally an apostrophe S and one extra word.” 

“Ah, the long-awaited return of Pedantic Tony Stark, ladies and gentlemen. Glad you’re feeling better, asshole.”

He wasn’t, really. But the familiar, petty need to correct Barton felt good, at least for a moment. That was as much as he could hope for right now. 

November quickly established itself as a bleak parenthetical note to October. The bright hues that enlivened autumn had fallen, leaving a sparse scattering of lonely leaves stubbornly clinging to skeletal branches. Everything was drab and depressing against the backdrop of a rainy, grey sky, and that suited Tony just fine. If he had to feel like shit, it was better somehow, knowing nature itself was wallowing in seasonal misery.

The livid speckles on his face served as daily reminders of how profoundly the human body could reject the ugliness of reality. They had begun to fade a little, but he wished he could hasten the process of their healing. This wasn’t like having a shiner after a heroic (and nearly self-sacrificial) battle against aliens in Manhattan. This was a very visible manifestation of his emotional vulnerability. Battle scars are cool. Self-inflicted barf bruises are not.

And then there were the _other_ marks, also fading, finally. Steve did this, marked him up, knowing he was leaving. Knowing Tony would read that goddamn file and flip his shit over it. Knowing Tony would still have to deal with the looks of pity from everyone else on the team. How the hell could he make any sense of that?

He’d almost texted Steve so many times in the last week, alternately angry ( _‘You were so worried I’d take the news badly. That’s why you left me to deal with it all on my own, right?’_ ) and vulnerable ( _‘Remember those nightmares? Back with a vengeance, now with 30% more horror. I can’t sleep without you.’_ ). None of them were sent, of course. But he’d come very close to it.

The nightmares continued with debilitating regularity. He admitted as much to Natasha one night, after they’d watched a movie. It didn’t matter how many times he dreamed about it. When he was in that nightmare world, everything felt real and raw and immediate. The dreams about losing his friends, losing Steve, had been bad enough. The recent muddled remixes of that vivid horror with the gut punching grief of his parents’ murder had introduced him to a whole new level of sleeplessness.

“Have you considered talking to Wanda about this? Maybe she could fix it somehow, since she’s the one who put it there.” Natasha knew this was a sensitive subject, but something had to change.

He shook his head. “I don’t want her messing around in my head again. Ever.”

Tony felt trapped, stuck in a loop of loneliness and futile grief, made infinitely worse by prolonged sleep deprivation. He’d be of no use on missions like this, and he knew it. Still, he muddled along, catching naps here and there, waking up with his heart in his throat and his stomach clenched with anxiety. It was always the same. Until it changed.

_Aliens. Terror. Death. Failure. Recriminations. Searching for Steve. Always Steve._

_Howard is being murdered again, and Tony stands in the rubble, his throat raw and soundless as he strains to scream._

_The shield is broken. His friends are all dead. Blond hair amidst the wreckage. Maria Stark is dying, half buried under broken cinder blocks. Chitauri ships fly overhead. Everything is out of order._

_The man in black appears, striding toward her trapped body. She looks at Tony with pleading eyes, gasping out one sentence before she is strangled._

_“Why didn’t you do more?”_

It was mid-afternoon when Tony jerked awake. He’d fallen asleep on the couch, with a tablet in his lap. Bruce was sitting nearby in an easy chair he’d turned toward one of the windows, silently watching the season’s first snowfall as it floated down over the city below.

His mother’s dying reproach rang in Tony’s mind, driving him to his feet. With the glimmer of an idea dawning, he ran to his closet, and grabbed the file from behind Steve’s shield. “JARVIS, is Agent Romanoff in the building? Tell her to meet me in the living room.”

As he made his way back to the living room, Natasha came up the hall. “Hey, what’s this about?”

“Doing more.” Tony had a clarity in his eyes that had been missing for weeks. He smiled encouragingly at Natasha and lead the way to the living room. “Hey big guy, do you have a second to look at something?”

Pulled from his quiet contemplation, Bruce looked curiously at Tony, then glanced at the manila folder in his hands. “If that contains pictures of your balls, no.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know I abandoned that idea years ago.” Tony dragged another chair over. “This is something _slightly_ more complex.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a couple of quick things... 
> 
> Re: Tony's joking about historical assassinations (or, in the case of "that pope who died suspiciously," *rumored* assassinations) - gallows humor is a thing. It can help people maintain some distance from anxiety and grief. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. 
> 
> Speaking of that pope... Pope John Paul I was pope for 33 days in 1978. It was a big deal. There was lots of speculation that someone offed him. Conspiracy theorists love that shit. 
> 
> Tony's experience of petechiae - the facial bruising described after he gets violently ill - is a very real thing, that can be brought on by coughing very hard, throwing up, choking, etc. The skin around the eyes is really delicate, so that tends to be the first area it appears, but it can be all over the forehead, around the mouth, and so on. It can take a few days, or even weeks to dissipate once it's there. It's generally harmless but annoying. (If it occurs without a very obvious trigger, or exceeds a certain size, it's cause for medical follow-up, to rule out some medical conditions. Tony's isn't THAT bad.)
> 
> The joking remark Tony makes after he ditches his trousers, and Bruce's later hesitation to look at the file in Tony's hands, are callbacks to the (admittedly stupid) premise of the original trilogy of stories I wrote in this series.
> 
> I'm working on editing the next chapter, getting it ready to post next weekend. As always, thanks for reading!


	7. These Foolish Things (Remind Me Of You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home cooking, Russian cookies, and angst.

It was late afternoon when Steve returned to the apartment, his hair and shoulders dusted with rapidly melting snowflakes. Bucky was standing in front of the stove, wearing an apron over his black button-down shirt and trousers, stirring something in a large pot. The air was heavy with the aroma of sage, onion, and a spice Steve couldn’t quite place. It was homey and cozy, and just about everything he craved after a day out in the cold.

“Smells good in here.” Steve slipped out of his jacket and tossed it on the couch, heading for the kitchen. “I thought you had tonight off?”

“So did I. But Adam and his guy split up, so he ‘called in sad’ and asked if I’d cover his shift. I figured an extra night of tips wouldn’t be a bad thing. Gotta save up for Christmas.” Bucky blew on a spoonful of soup, with a thoughtful expression on his face as he tasted it. He grabbed a small tin of black pepper and shook it a few times over the pot. He looked over at Steve. “Where’d you go today?”

“Sam put me in touch with a veterans’ home here in town. There are a bunch of guys there who don’t get visitors. I thought maybe, I dunno…”

“You thought you’d show up and go, _ta-daaaa_ , look who it is! Captain America, campaignin’ for sainthood.” Bucky was grinning, but there was something in his voice that undercut the levity of his jest. 

“Not quite.”

“You sure about that?” Bucky measured out dry and liquid ingredients, stirring them together and dropping spoonfuls of the sticky batter over the bubbling surface of the soup. After carefully covering the pot and setting a timer, he wiped his hands on a towel. He turned to face Steve, narrowing his eyes. “Last week, you heard there was an animal shelter that needed help. So you went and cleaned kennels and talked to people about the ‘serious responsibilities’ of pet adoptions.”

“It’s a big deal, Buck. They--”

“I’m not finished.” He grabbed bowls from the cupboard and set them out on the counter. “Friday, you were out pickin’ up trash and recycling in the park. Saturday, you went over to the soup kitchen and served lunch to homeless people.”

“They really needed an extra set of hands. What’s wrong with doing some charitable volunteer work? It’s the least I can do.”

“Stevie. Buddy. This don’t look like charity to me. This looks like some kinda penitential jag.” He couldn’t fault Steve’s impulse toward service. For as long as he’d known him, Steve had always wanted to do his part to make the world better. But this felt _off._ “You know you ain’t foolin’ me.”

Steve furrowed his brow, but said nothing. He sniffed and looked over at the covered soup pot. “Is that your ma’s recipe for chicken and dumplings?” 

“Yeah, near as I can recall. She didn’t write that stuff down. Hopin’ seventy years of brain scrambling didn’t mess up the stew too bad.”

“I’m sure it’s fine. Hope you made enough, I’m starved.” Steve started toward the stove, and Bucky’s arm shot out, intercepting him. 

“Don’t even think about opening that lid. You’ll fuck up the dumplings.” Bucky shook his head and turned Steve toward the table, waving him away. After he checked the timer, his expression softened. “You know, it ain’t like if you do enough generic nice guy crap, you get a do-over. None of this shit fixes what you’re runnin’ from.”

“I know.” Steve sat down at the table, his shoulders slumping under the weight of Bucky’s too-perceptive gaze. 

Bucky filled a bowl and set it on the table. He rested a reassuring hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Eat. Worry about savin’ your soul later.”

**********

The tower was quiet.

For some time now, Tony had been fiddling with a device he’d nicknamed “B.A.R.F.” - Binarily Augmented Retro Framing - a virtual reality technology aimed at processing traumatic memories. It would allow the subject to work through trauma and achieve some degree of control and closure. 

That was the theory, anyway. In his moments of brutal self-honesty, he knew there was something in him that resisted healing; something that, however cringingly, responded to Captain Kirk howling, “I need my pain!” Maybe he didn’t need the melodrama. But the sense of grounding it gave him? He would always be Tony Stark, who lost his parents in a profoundly fucked-up way, and whose life was a goddamn Macy’s parade of abductions, torture, near-death experiences, and betrayals of every conceivable description. The shadows of those events colored his days, no matter how much money he ever made, or how well he designed his tech. 

Knowing this didn’t stop him from pushing forward on this technology. As with so many of his inventions, he was the primary (read: only) guinea pig, so he knew first-hand that B.A.R.F. sessions triggered substantial headaches and nausea. The irony of that particular side effect was not lost on him, and had possibly contributed to his continued use of what he knew was a terrible name for otherwise impressive technology. With Bruce’s help, he was determined to find a way to mitigate those effects, without diminishing the potential for reprogramming “bad circuits” in the brain of a less willfully-resistant subject. 

And then there were the other, thornier considerations. He wasn’t entirely sure how to control for potentially triggering the murderfest programming embedded somewhere deep in Barnes’ mind. Their files on HYDRA’s programming were extensive, but clearly incomplete. Any attempt at accessing the control center they’d lodged in there would undoubtedly involve a degree of risk, but Tony needed to be very sure he wasn’t unleashing a killing machine on the world. (Again.) As a precaution, he was working on designs for a top security B.A.R.F. therapy room that would go into lockdown at the first sign of trouble. Most potential subjects for this therapy wouldn’t need state of the art containment features, because most of them lacked superpowered metal arms, or super strength, with a history of mental programming for violence.

The last time Barnes was deployed by HYDRA, Steve wound up in the hospital, with his exquisite face (among other things) beaten to a pulp. He’d healed up beautifully, of course, because Steve did everything beautifully. The vast majority of the Winter Soldier’s targets, however, including Howard and Maria Stark, lacked the good fortune of a life-and-physique-changing meeting with Abraham Erskine. If he were to be triggered and escape, there was no telling what kind of mayhem would result. 

“I’m starving. I need a break.” Bruce peered at Tony over the rim of his glasses. He was hunched over a laptop, where he’d spent the better part of the day silently reviewing Tony’s extensive documentation on the settings he’d tested, occasionally scribbling notes on a legal pad. “Have you eaten anything today?”

Tony considered the question for a moment. “Does a green smoothie count?”

“Was that today?”

“I don’t know, I lose track when I’m working. What are you ordering?” He kicked one foot against the desk, sending his desk chair rolling toward Bruce. He hazarded a quick glance at Bruce’s notepad. “That’s an impressive array of question marks.”

“The mind is a complex thing, Tony. It’s not like fixing a bad bit of code in a computer.”

“I know, that’s why I need your help.”

Bruce sighed. “I don’t know that we can monkey around in someone’s head without some side effects. But… I think I have something that will at least reduce the hang time on the headaches.” 

“And our special patient?” 

“It’s too soon to say. It would help if we had more to go on.”

Suppressing a frown, Tony patted Bruce’s shoulder, then launched his chair backward, gliding to a stop at his desk. “I like sausage and mushroom on my pizza.”

**********

With a project to distract him these last few weeks, Tony seemed to be doing a little better. He was spending less time holed up in his bedroom, and less time in the company of a bottle of whiskey, which meant Natasha was spending less time babysitting him.

She hadn’t called ahead, but somehow, Bucky didn’t seem surprised to see her when he opened the door. He invited her in, and offered her a cup of coffee, which she accepted gratefully, cradling the hot mug in her chilled hands. 

“Steve’s out right now. He’s been on a do-gooder kick lately.”

Natasha glanced around, surveying the sparsely-furnished apartment. The building appeared to have been built in the 1920s or early 1930s. A radiator hissed and sputtered in the kitchenette where they sat. Its counterpart in the living room offered a series of responsorial hisses, and off in the bedroom, a third radiator joined the warmly sibilant chorus. The windows were original to the unit, or close enough, judging by the thick layer of frost framing each pane of glass. Steve’s sketchbook and a cigar box of art supplies occupied an end table, tucked in the corner between a gaudy floral couch and a battered brown vinyl recliner. A pillow perched atop a neatly folded stack of blankets and sheets on a nearby ottoman, and the coffee table was covered with books ranging from St. Augustine to Kurt Vonnegut.

“Does he talk to you?” 

“You mean about the stuff with Stark? Not since we came back to Philly, no. But I’m not dumb. I can piece things together.” He shrugged. “He’s not happy. Seems to think he doesn’t deserve to be.”

“Not an uncommon sentiment, in my experience.”

“Maybe not. But… maybe it’s a waste of time to worry about whether we deserve any of the shit that happens to us, good or bad.” Bucky got up to refill his mug, lingering by the coffee pot. “When Steve and I were kids, he got nothin’ but a raw deal outta life. I lived it up while he coughed himself half to death, and got his ass handed to him in every alleyway in Brooklyn. So when I was captured, and wound up where I did... I wondered, sometimes, if I’d had everything too easy til then. Maybe all this shit they were doing to me was to balance the scales, right? Make up for all those years I’d spent on top of the world. But you know what? There ain’t no cosmic scale, weighin’ out the good and bad in our lives, doling out rewards and punishments. There’s just life. Some of it’s good, and some of it’s pretty fuckin’ bad.”

Natasha frowned, dismissing hazy recollections of her own stolen childhood, and a lifetime of roads not taken. “We do the best we can with the hands we’re dealt.”

“Well, I got dealt a metal fuckin’ hand.” His eyes were sparkling with barely suppressed amusement as he drummed silvery digits on the countertop. 

“Poor choice of words. I’m sorry, James.” 

“Don’t be. I’m just givin’ you shit.” He grinned, then turned to open a cupboard, rooting around until he found a tin of cookies with parallel blocks of English and Cyrillic script on one side. He popped the top and set the tin on the table. “You always liked this kind, right? With the plum jam in them?”

Natasha blinked at the tin. She swore softly under her breath, then raised her gaze to meet his. “How long have you been waiting to do that?”

“I dunno. I wanted to say something in New York, but I didn’t want to seem insensitive.”

“Steve and Tony needed us. The two of them--”

“Are a goddamn handful, and probably oughta just sit down and have a conversation that doesn’t end with one of them storming out. It’s obvious they’re both mooning around without each other.” Bucky set his coffee mug on the table, and pulled a chair close to Natasha. “I don’t wanna talk about them right now. They can sort their shit out for themselves.”

“James…”

“Nat, there are still some gaps in what I remember.” Tentatively, he reached toward her, closing her hand in his. “But I remember you. I remember us.”

**********

Natasha found Tony in his workshop, working on some improvements to his suit. She dropped a large manila envelope on the workbench. “Mail call. Philadelphia postmark.”

“Thanks.” Tony glanced at the envelope, deliberately returning his attention to the suit design before him. 

“You gonna open that or…?”

“I thought I’d play it cool til you left. Note the nonchalant expression.”

“Your pupils dilated when I said Philadelphia. And your respiration--”

“I hate you.” With a flash of petulance, he picked up the envelope. The address was written in familiar, old man penmanship. “For the record, I always get a little short of breath when I get mail. It’s called enthusiasm. Nobody writes letters these days.”

He pulled out a stack of paper. The first page was covered - front and back - with Steve’s neat cursive. 

_“Tony,_

_I don’t know if I have the right to be reaching out to you at this point._

_I hope you’re taking care of yourself, and remembering to eat. Maybe I’m speaking out of turn, but I worry about you. Every day, I think about what you must be feeling right now. And every day, I remind myself I’m the reason you feel that way._

_Bucky’s been busting my chops for doing volunteer work around the city. He thinks I’m doing penance. He may be onto something._

_I miss you._

_Steve”_

Tony couldn’t help but imagine Steve hunched over his notebook, carefully choosing his words, recording them in the precise, textbook penmanship that likely earned high marks in school in the 1930s. His careful style of writing was in keeping with his often guarded choices in his life. Even when he made terrible choices, there was no denying he’d put considerable thought into them. Tony’s damn near illegible penmanship paired perfectly with his damn near illegible approach to life. He was more impulsive, less filtered, often saving the thinking (“ruminating” is what a psychologist called it) for later, at least when his heart was involved. He knew it drove Steve crazy sometimes. But then, Steve’s measured, stoic responses drove Tony crazy, too.

He remembered Natasha was watching him, and shook off the moment. The next few pages were a series of sketches of places around Philadelphia. The Liberty Bell. Independence Hall. The statue of Rocky at the base of that famous flight of stairs. The Art Deco tower off Washington Square - his home away from home, which would never be the same. 

As he examined the sketches, Tony realized he appeared in each of them, mixed in with crowds of bystanders or lurking behind landmarks, as though Steve had turned them into a game of “Where’s Waldo” - except Waldo had traded in that absurd hat and sweater for impeccably groomed facial hair and an outrageously expensive suit. Tiny Tony, peeking out from behind the Rocky statue. Tony peering over the rim of his sunglasses and gesturing toward the Liberty Bell. Tony’s face, roughly sketched in, peeping through a high penthouse window of the tower. 

The final page was a self-portrait of Steve. His features, well-rendered by his skillful hand, were handsome as ever, but serious. There was a stoic strength in the set of his jaw, reflecting a lifetime of making choices for the greater good, pushing aside his feelings for his ideals. But his eyes… his eyes were haunted. Steve hadn’t drawn Tony in this one; at least, not intentionally. But Tony recognized the look in Steve’s eyes - it was one he saw every day in the mirror. 

Carefully tucking the pages into the envelope, Tony set it on the workbench. Scratching his beard, he looked over at Natasha. “I’ve been thinking.”

“So have I.”

“I thi-- wait, what have you been thinking?”

“That I want to recover the missing Winter Soldier program documents. There’s a notebook James mentioned. We’re going to need that. It’s the only way to be sure he can’t be used to hurt anyone again.”

Tony quirked an eyebrow. “When did _James_ mention this?”

“Recently. I’ve been checking in on him once or twice a week, since he and Steve went back to Philadelphia. To be sure he was stable.” Her expression was pointedly blank, discouraging further inquiry on that subject, for now.

“Ah.” He glanced at the manila envelope again. No postage, or postmark. Of course. With an absurd air of nonchalance, Tony nodded and asked, “So, have you seen--”

“Yes, I’ve seen Steve a few times now. He still wears his jeans too tight, but he doesn’t have you around to make that face at him when he does, so he looks sad. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“When you say he wears his jeans too tight, what are we talking? Form-fitting? Dresses to the right?”

“Maybe you should go have coffee with him and find out for yourself.”

Tony squinted at her. “Did he tell you I should do that?”

“Or maybe you could invite him to Thanksgiving dinner here. I bet he’d come, even on short notice.”

“Right, but then he’d probably leave the tight jeans at home. Needs room for all that food.”

“Come on, Tony. Admit it. You want to invite him.” 

“I’m not saying you’re wrong. But I think we need to focus on this other situation first.”

“Fine. I have a solid lead on it. I’m thinking it should be fairly straightforward. It’s not in a secure facility, it’s just one guy. I’ve already got eyes on the ground there, keeping an eye on things.”

“You knew I’d say yes.”

“I know you’re invested in getting this done.” She smirked. “I was thinking I could bring Wilson with me. He’d be good backup.”

“Take anyone you think you need, to get it done. If you need me for this, I can make room in my busy schedule of moping and trying to look busy.”

“No, I want to keep this operation small. Less likely to attract attention if we don’t have you along.”

“Are you saying I’m too conspicuous for your little stealth mission?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, playboy. If everything goes according to plan, you and Bruce will have that book by the middle of December.” Natasha patted him on the head, good-naturedly chuckling as she allowed him to bat her hand away. She started toward the door, then stopped, turning to face Tony again. Her voice was soft but sincere. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do for James. Even if you’re doing it for Steve.”

Tony glanced at the envelope on the workbench, then looked up at Natasha. He managed a brief, sad smile, then excused himself. He needed solitude, and space to think.

**********

_‘You know, if you decide to hang up the shield for good, you could make a decent living doing caricatures for tourists in Times Square.’_

After a moment’s hesitation, Tony hit send. His first impulse had been to respond right away, but he’d given himself a day to think about the letter, and about whether he was genuinely ready to respond. The last twenty four hours had been spent asking himself the question, “Have you forgiven Steve?” He wanted to be able to say, without hesitation, “Yes. Absolutely.” But the reality was muddier than that. All he knew, for sure, was that, despite everything, he loved Steve. Maybe he still had a way to go toward healing. But maybe that process would stand a better chance if they actually talked. 

He stared at the phone, willing Steve to reply. A few minutes passed, during which he wondered whether his message would be misinterpreted, or immediately deleted, or read aloud to Barnes as exhibit 147 in the case against Tony as relationship material. What if Steve hadn’t meant for that letter to be delivered? Had Natasha overstepped in bringing that back from Philadelphia? He was about to send a mortifyingly desperate clarification text when the phone beeped.

_‘Do they actually make that much? Better pay than Avenging? Just for drawing people with big teeth?’_

Relieved, Tony laughed nervously at the thought of Steve perched on one of those little stools, hands covered with charcoal, cranking out terrible, comical drawings of tourists in exchange for wads of crumpled up fives and tens. 

_‘Maybe not. Less risk, though.’_

_‘The Avenging wasn’t the risky part, in my experience.’_

_Ouch._ Well, they were going to have to go there, if they were going to move forward, right? Right. He drew a steadying breath, then carefully tapped out a response.

_‘I suppose you have a point. Speaking of which… how do you feel about meeting for coffee?’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... hey! An update! 
> 
> Just a quick note:  
> The "I need my pain!" moment with Captain Kirk comes in Star Trek V: The Final Frontier. If you haven't seen it, look it up, because it's a hammy delight in one of the weaker Star Trek films. Spock's half-brother Sybok offers to mind meld with the crew, to take away the pain of past memories, and Kirk refuses, with an overplayed explanation of how his pain is part of who he is. It's a ridiculous moment, and yet... I kinda love it.
> 
> Finally... my hat is off to the fic writers who weathered the election here in the U.S. and didn't spiral into a depressive, unproductive funk. Seriously. You guys are superhuman or something, and I love you for it. Apologies for the delay. I'll try not to take so long in getting the next chapter up.


	8. Please Be Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's ready to talk, and Steve has a beard, which makes everything basically 100% NSFW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to add a link to some [amazing commissioned fanart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11017551) done by stitchy.

_‘You up?’_

It was 12:17 a.m. when Natasha awoke and reached for her phone. She smiled sleepily and typed a quick response. _‘I am now.’_

_‘Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.’_

_‘I don’t mind waking up for you. You ok?’_

_‘Just wish you were here.’_

_‘Me too. Soon. I’ll come see you before I go.’_

_‘If I left rt now, I could be there in 2 hrs. You could sleep in the car.’_

_‘You don’t have a car.’_

_‘Steve does. He’s asleep. He won’t mind.’_

_‘Aren’t you tired?’_

Her phone beeped as a picture loaded. James, sitting in bed, wearing a navy blue t-shirt emblazoned with a trio of howling wolves beneath an enormous full moon. He was almost smiling. _‘Nah. I’d rather see you than sleep.’_

_‘Where did you get that ridiculous shirt?’_

_‘Thrift store. Best $3 I’ve ever spent.’_

_‘Fine. Come get me. I’ll buy you breakfast.’_ She immediately tapped out another text. _‘Don’t change. I need to see that thing up close.’_

**********

The bell over the door jingled as Tony entered the coffee shop. He was about thirty minutes early, which he figured allowed time to scope the place out, find a good table away from other people, and maybe knock back an espresso to settle his nerves before Steve arrived.

“Hey.” From a table in the back corner of the shop, Steve waved. His usually clean-shaven face was framed with a neatly trimmed mustache and beard - a surprising but entirely delightful development in Tony’s eyes. He was wearing one of his favorite blue cardigans, over a snug white t-shirt and jeans. A large mug stood on the table, surrounded by crumpled up sugar packets. 

_So much for getting here early._

As Tony approached the table, Steve rose from his chair, bumping the table and slopping coffee over the rim of his mug. After throwing a wad of napkins on the puddle, he tugged at the bottom of his sweater and stepped forward. Tony thought they were going to hug, but after a flustered millisecond of indecision, Steve extended a hand while scratching his beard with the other. “I hope the drive out wasn’t bad. I guess I didn’t realize how many people would be out on the roads the day after Thanksgiving.”

“How many years has it been since they thawed you?” Tony clasped Steve’s hand. He gave a slow squeeze, then smiled. “It’s good to see you. You look-- I just said good, right? Is it weird if I say it again? Because you look good. The facial hair is… a really nice surprise.”

Steve’s eyes crinkled up at the corners. “You think so? Bucky keeps telling me I look like ‘a tramp, but not the good kind.’ I haven’t decided if I should keep it.”

“Honest opinion? Sexy as hell. I feel like I’m on a secret date with your Mirrorverse twin.”

“That’s the… bearded Spock, right?”

“I’ve taught you well.” Tony pressed a hand to his heart, beaming with exaggerated pride.

They sat down, each in his own way unsure where to begin. 

Tony leaned back in his chair, unzipping his Italian leather jacket, debating whether to keep it on or shrug it off. The first time he’d worn this jacket on a date with Steve, it was met with what Tony euphemistically termed “Steve’s enthusiastic approval.” Not that Tony was expecting the jacket to work “hand job in the car” magic today. It was probably better if they didn’t throw themselves right back into things like that just yet. No, he’d settle for triggering a pleasant moment of extremely sexy nostalgia for Steve. With a knowing smile he noted Steve’s approving eyes on him. _Mission accomplished._ He slipped out of the jacket, carefully draping it over the back of his chair.

With trembling hands, Steve opened a sugar packet, dumping it into his coffee, staring into the mug as he stirred the dark brew. He took a sip and made a face, but downed the remaining coffee with the stoicism of a man who’d lived through the Great Depression. “I’m going to get a refill and check on your drink, I’ll be right back.” 

Watching Steve nervously fumbling around filled Tony with a fondness that was almost painful in its intensity. Whatever impulses he’d had toward playing it cool were vigorously overthrown the moment he saw Steve rocking the _hot-urban-lumberjack-you-could-take-home-to-meet-mom_ look. A random thought flitted through Tony’s mind… maybe Steve wasn’t really on the fence about that facial hair. Maybe it was actually his secret weapon, like Tony’s leather jacket. _I’ll be damned. He’s better at this than I thought._

“So… in your letter, you mentioned keeping busy?” Gratefully, Tony accepted his espresso from the barista who’d followed Steve to the table. He pulled out his wallet and handed her a hundred dollar bill, waving off her protests with a wink.

Steve slid into his seat, his large hands dwarfing the mug enfolded in them. He grinned sheepishly. “Ah, yeah. I guess I did mention that. I have a few places I help out at around here. You know… the veterans’ home, a needle exchange, stuff like that.”

“I half expected to see you ringing a bell and wearing a Santa suit outside the coffee shop.”

“Expected? Or hoped?”

With a clatter, Tony set down his drink, slopping what was left as he fumbled with the demitasse and saucer. He cleared his throat. “I’m just saying, it wouldn’t have been an unwelcome sight. Especially not with that beard.” 

He caught the barista’s eye and gestured toward his cup, batting his eyes and raising his hands in a prayerful plea. She acknowledged him with a thumbs up, and set to work on a refill. Tony fished out some more cash and tucked it under the edge of his saucer. He traced a fingertip around the rim of the empty demitasse, willing himself to breathe in and out, despite the earnest intensity of Steve’s brilliant blue eyes on him. “Gotta take care of the folks who keep me caffeinated.”

“Gosh, it’s good to see you, Tony.”

“You too, Steve.” On the drive from New York, he’d practiced what he wanted to say, but now that he was here, his mind was a blank. Tony looked up again, allowing his gaze to sweep up over Steve’s chest, and was just beginning to admire the line of Steve’s jaw when his gaze snapped back to the blue cardigan. “Oh my god.”

Steve raised a quizzical eyebrow. 

“Our first date. I knew I recognized that sweater, Mister Rogers.” 

Cheeks flushed, Steve nodded, pleased. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”

“I will remember that night until the day I die.” Tony leaned forward over the table. Impulsively, he grabbed one of Steve’s hands. “You, in that sweater, looking at me like I wasn’t a colossal fuck-up… I don’t generally believe in luck. But that night? I believed.”

Steve’s eyes shone. He started to say something, then hesitated, pressing his lips together. His gaze shifted to Tony’s hand on his.

Tony watched him, wishing he knew what to say. _He wouldn’t have worn that if he didn’t want me to go there, right? Or had he forgotten?_ Gingerly, he released Steve’s hand, suddenly self-conscious. 

“So, listen, there was something important I wanted to run by you. I don’t know if Natasha already mentioned it, or… um…” 

Ashamed, he realized he was balking at saying Barnes’ name. _Come on, Tony, you’re not the Fonz. There’s no laugh track ready to kick in if you stall out over saying the guy’s name._ He picked up his drink and sipped it, buying himself a few extra moments to compose himself. Steve was looking at him again, eyes intent and curious. 

Clearing his throat, he started over. “Bruce and I have been working on something, with a little help from Natasha. Something I was thinking might be helpful for… your friend. For Bucky.”

Steve shifted in his seat. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Remember that thing I made to help me deal with my--” Tony stopped. He wasn’t ready to talk about his parents, not in a coffee shop. Between the recent revelations and the upcoming anniversary of their deaths, the feelings were too close to the surface. “Ah, the thing to deal with trauma, you know the one. Gave me headaches. Bruce is working on a way to make the headaches less, er, headachy. And Natasha--”

“Wait, is that why she’s been coming out so much? You have her doing recon for one of your science projects?” Steve couldn’t mask the disappointment in his voice.

“What? No, no, I mean, I don’t-- You’d have to ask her why she’s been visiting.” Tony felt himself losing control of the situation. He drew a deep breath, slowly exhaling and thinking of all the reasons he wanted to stay calm -- reasons beyond their proximity to other people in this tiny cafe. Modulating his voice, he made another attempt. “Steve, I wanted to talk to you about this because I know how important he is to you. And I know you’re worried about the stuff in his head. That’s why you’re living here, right? I just wanted to offer some kind of option for him. Some kind of hope.”

“He’s already been through so much, Tony. And now you want to use him as a lab rat?”

“Lab rat? Is that how you see me, Steve? Am I a mad scientist?” Tony knew he sounded annoyed, and defensive, but he couldn’t help it. “Look. I get that I’ve made some missteps in the past, but damn it, Steve. I’ve worked so hard on this. Despite my entirely justifiable, complicated feelings about him. I’m trying to do something good.”

“I just don’t understand what you’re hoping to accomplish. What if you end up wiping his memory again?” Steve’s voice was rising, as he gripped the edge of the table.“Or what if you set him off and he hurts someone? Had you even thought about that?” 

“Of course I’ve thought about that, Steve. If you’d just let me explain, I’m taking precautions, and--”

“My god, Tony, what if he killed you, thinking you were Howard or something?”

Tony blinked. He’d imagined generic, innocent bystanders being swept aside by a programmed Winter Soldier, but that specific thought hadn’t occurred to him, at least not in his waking moments. _Mission: Kill Stark, leave no witnesses._ Tony’s mind rapidly played out several scenarios of violence and death at the hands of Bucky Barnes. In the lab at the tower, his skull slamming repeatedly into the edge of a sleek metal lab table. Pinned to the floor and choked, his heart failing as Barnes ripped his arc reactor from his chest, getting his face smashed in by that metal hand. A trail of cold bodies leading out of the tower, as the Winter Soldier tied up loose ends. It was his nightmare, and then some. 

His eyes fluttered closed, and he took refuge in the background noise of the coffee shop; the grinding coffee beans and hissing steamer giving him something innocuous on which to focus his panicked mind. Finally, with his eyes still closed, he made an effort to unclench his jaw and said in a low voice, “You have no idea how hard this is for me.”

Steve’s fingers, warm and surprisingly soft, closed over Tony’s hand. 

“I’m sorry. I jumped to conclusions. I guess I need to work on that.” Steve offered a wan hint of a smile. 

The sad, sinking, emptiness that had haunted Tony since his last visit to Philadelphia settled over him. In so many ways, the occasional moments of rage had been easier than this stifling uncertainty. Latching onto the easy familiarity of bitterness, he pushed his coffee away. “Do you remember what it was like, before we started second-guessing each other? Or was that an illusion? Were we always like this? Assuming the worst of each other, but keeping it hidden away, while fooling ourselves into thinking that we could somehow make this work?”

Steve’s jaw tensed. He sat in silence, turning over Tony’s questions in his mind. His self-examination over the last several weeks had left him mired in doubt, both about his own integrity, and his failure to trust Tony. Maybe before all that, he’d have been affronted, and would have argued with him, but now? How could he? 

Tony watched the tension in Steve’s jaw, the way he’d slumped in his chair. His heart sank. He’d said too much, let his mouth run, as usual. _No wonder Steve left. What was I thinking?_

“You don’t have to answer that.” Tony glanced at his watch. “I suppose I should go.”

Steve’s expression fell. “Wait. Tony, I didn’t mean to rush to judgment. I didn’t mean that lab rat stuff. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. This is all on me.” Tony pushed his chair back, and began to rise, swallowing the sick, hopeless feeling in his gut. 

Steve reached out a hand, squeezing Tony’s fingers in his. “Please, just sit. For a few more minutes. I don’t want you to go like this. We always do this. Both of us. This abrupt, stupid… giving up.”

Tony looked at the strong fingers wrapped pleadingly around his hand. Steve was right, of course. They’d fallen into a bad habit of walking out. Easier, maybe, at least in the moment. But fatal to sustaining a relationship. He gave a tense nod. “Listen… would it be okay if we went somewhere else?”

**********

“It’s nothing fancy, but it’s not too bad.” As they walked into the small apartment, Steve helped Tony out of his coat. If Steve noticed his fingertips slowly grazing the back of Tony’s neck, he didn’t acknowledge it. “I think this entire place would fit into one of your walk-in closets.”

“I lived in a cave for three months, remember?” 

“Bucky’ll be glad to hear his apartment rates better than a cave.” Steve waved Tony toward the couch as he went to the kitchen. “Want some water or something? I think there are some little cookies hidden in the cupboard.”

“Sure, whatever you have is good.” Tony meandered around the room, casting a cursory glance at the books on the bookshelf. _Kerouac? Really? That’s gotta be Barnes’._ He made his way to the window, which looked out over the alley behind the building. “Gee, the dumpsters are beautiful this time of year.” 

“You should see ‘em when there’s a fresh dusting of snow on the lids.”

“I bet the rats love that.”

“You haven’t lived til you’ve seen them build a snow rat.” After depositing their drinks on the coffee table, Steve joined Tony at the window. With some hesitation, he slipped his arm around Tony’s shoulders, asking, “Is this okay?”

Tony nodded, incapable of resisting the comfort offered in Steve’s embrace. Eyes closed, he wrapped his arms around Steve. He could hear the anxious urgency of Steve’s heartbeat, its erratic rhythm resistant to the calming efforts of his deliberate breaths. 

“What you asked me before… I don’t think it was an illusion, the way we were. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you, Tony. But love doesn’t mean always getting it right. If it did, I would never have let you down so badly.”

“I don’t need you to be perfect, Steve. God knows I’m not.” 

“That’s a start, right?” Steve pressed his lips to the top of Tony’s head, a gesture of tender supplication. “I’ll do whatever it takes to regain your trust, no matter how long it takes.”

Tony knew Steve was waiting for him to say something. He wished he had a reassuring response to offer, something more potent than a defensive _“I’m trying.”_ He felt like a failure. He was the one who’d asked to meet. He wanted this. Needed it. And here he was, silently wrestling with what the hell to say, trying to find a way not to sound like the petty and spiteful creature he feared he might be. _Deflection, then._ “Do you sleep on that couch?”

“Yeah. Or at least, I try to.” 

“Did you guys find it in the alley?”

“I dunno, Buck had it before I tracked him down here.”

“It’s indefensibly hideous.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” Steve chuckled. “But it’s better than the floor.”

“And you know this empirically?”

Steve looked at the floor. Unforgiving hardwood, with no rugs anywhere. He shrugged, grabbing Tony’s hand as he lowered himself to the floor. 

Gamely, Tony laid down next to him, accepting the offer of Steve’s absurdly ripped bicep as a pillow. “See? This isn’t so bad.”

Steve smiled to himself, staring up at the ceiling. With a pang, he realized how thoroughly he’d missed these moments. “You know, when I go to bed, I have all these conversations with you, in my head. I tell you about my day, and try to imagine you telling me about yours. And I… I try to imagine you forgiving me, Tony.”

Tony had told himself he didn’t need to talk about it, that he should focus on the future, on what really mattered between them. He couldn’t do that now. This was it, his _speak now or forever hold your peace_ moment, before he lost the courage to lay bare all the shitty, lonely things in his heart. He sat up and hunched over, crossing his legs. “It hurts that it was so premeditated. You withheld something so important, for so long. And then, you left me to find out the truth, to see those pictures. Alone.”

Sitting up, Steve reached for Tony. “I have regretted leaving since the moment I walked out. I hated hurting you. I hated not being there with you.” 

“But you didn’t come back. You just went away, with _him_ , and left me to deal with… all of that. By myself.”

“Nat was--”

“Nat wasn’t the person I wanted there with me when I was puking up all the horror and rage I felt. She’s not the person I wanted there when I woke up every fucking night, freaking out from nightmares.” Tony pulled away from Steve, scrambling to his feet. He took a few steps, then turned to look him in the eye. “She’s a great pal, but she’s not you.” 

“I know.” Steve’s voice constricted with shame. “I told myself you wouldn’t want me there.”

“So, you want to hear about bedtime for me, these last several weeks?” Shoving a stack of blankets to the middle of the couch, Tony claimed a seat in the far corner, arms folded over his chest. “I don’t count sheep. I think about secrets. I think about covert phone calls, and pictures of my dead parents. It’s all shrapnel, worming its way toward my heart. And I’ll be damned, but I can’t figure out how to keep it all at bay.”

Stricken, Steve sat down, his head hanging low. “Tony. I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I swear, if I could go back--”

“You can’t. I just… I needed you to know how much it all cost.” 

In a small, agonized voice, Steve asked, “Do you hate me?”

“I wouldn’t be here now if I hated you.” Tony sighed and shook his head. “I don’t think I’m capable of it. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

All it took was one look from Steve - hopeful, vulnerable, contrite. In an instant, the blankets were knocked off the couch. Cradling Steve’s face in his hands, he rasped, “I love you, goddammit. That’s never going to change.” 

With excruciating tenderness, he leaned in, heart racing as Steve met him halfway, eagerly kissing him. After all those weeks apart, the thrilling familiarity of Steve’s lips was a revelation to Tony; a revelation somehow enhanced by the addition of facial hair. He could spend hours like this, his lips exploring the whiskery texture of Steve’s jaw, kissing every inch of his face, returning time and again to taste his perfect mouth. Every moment offered something new, something familiar, something that felt like coming home. 

The ancient frame of the sofa creaked under them as Tony straddled Steve’s hips. He needed to be closer, no more distance between them. He wanted Steve’s mouth all over him, wanted that bearded face tickling his most sensitive places, teasing him until he couldn’t stand it anymore. 

With possessive hands, Steve clung to Tony’s hips, kneading at the fleshy curve of his posterior as they kissed. “I’ve missed touching you, Tony.”

“So touch me. Let me feel your fucking skin against mine.” Tony shrugged off his vest and let it fall to the floor, where it was quickly joined by Steve’s blue cardigan and t-shirt.

Hands trembling, Steve fumbled with the buttons on Tony’s shirt, murmuring apologies between kisses. He managed the final few buttons and triumphantly discarded the shirt. Gentle fingertips traced a winding trail around the glow of the arc reactor, as Steve contemplated Tony’s breathtaking, terrifying fragility as much as his brilliance. His lips followed his fingers, wordlessly whispering a litany of adoration over Tony’s flesh.

Easing Tony onto his back, Steve’s muscular frame covered him, propped up slightly on his elbows. “Am I too heavy?”

“I don’t care, just kiss me.” Tony grabbed fistfuls of hair to pull Steve into a kiss, evoking an appreciative, hungry moan. 

The taste of him was everything Tony remembered, everything he wanted. The weight of him, pressing Tony into the faded, grubby cushions of an upholstered tragedy, was at once a source of homey comfort and searing eroticism. He slid a hand down the flawless skin of Steve’s torso, relishing the smooth solidity of him. 

With a gasp, Steve shivered at the light touch. He pressed his lips to Tony’s jaw, then bit his earlobe and breathed, “Use your nails, Tone.” 

Buzzing with the intensity of emotional and bodily sensations, Tony complied, hesitantly scratching his nails down Steve’s back. 

“Harder. It won’t hurt me.” Steve nuzzled at Tony’s ear again, grinding slowly and deliberately against his rigid cock. “Do it as hard as you can.”

Rational thought overthrown by the raw need in Steve’s voice, Tony raked his nails over perfect skin, raising livid welts with each pass. The shuddering carnality of Steve’s response was all the explanation he required in this moment. 

Drunk with lust, Steve gazed into the near-black of Tony’s eyes. “Do you have any idea how much I need you?”

Tony’s hands slid down to Steve’s ass. With a firm squeeze, he growled, “These jeans have to go.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Steve slid off him long enough for both of them to strip down to the skin. He quickly threw a sheet over the couch, and Tony snickered behind him. 

“It’s not like that upholstery could get any worse.”

Naked and shivering in the draft seeping around the edges of frost-rimed windows, Steve ignored the remark, and draped a faded blue chenille blanket around Tony’s shoulders. “You look kinda cute like this.”

“I was just about to say the same.” Tony’s eyes swept over Steve’s naked form. He leaned in, moving close enough for his fingertips to meander down Steve’s flat belly. “This is a great look on you.”

“You know what else would look good on me?” 

“Ohh, you’re getting pretty smooth in your old age.” Tony flashed a wicked grin as he pushed Steve backward until he toppled onto the couch. Draping himself and the blanket over Steve’s nakedness, Tony kissed him, a slow, deep kiss full of unmasked intention. He began his descent, disappearing under the blanket, nibbling his way down Steve’s body. Between teasing bites, he asked, “How… the hell... do you sleep... on this thing...? You’re too… fucking… tall for it.” 

“I dunno, I...” Steve lifted the edge of the blanket, and Tony looked up at him, his features dimly illuminated with the blue glow of his arc reactor. Words failed him at the sight of Tony, a dark seraph settled into a nest of concupiscence between his thighs.

Eager blue eyes fixed on him, Tony licked his lips and wrapped a hand around Steve’s shaft, attentively stroking the length of it until a glistening bead of precum welled up. He dragged the tip of his tongue over it, lapping up the salty slickness. 

With a whimper, Steve dropped the edge of the blanket, allowing his eyes to flutter closed as Tony’s mouth closed over his aching cock. The flicking of his tongue, alternated with gentle suckling, began slowly and methodically at first. Tony knew exactly how to give him what he wanted, then withhold it just long enough to make him beg for more. White-knuckled, clutching a handful of Tony’s hair, he moaned. 

“God, that’s good… I’m so close… Ohhh, I’m--”

A key turned in the lock, and the door swung open. Bucky and Natasha stumbled in, arms around one another. “Whoa. Jesus, Steve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No special notes today, just my sincere thanks for reading. The next chapter is shaping up nicely and should be up soon.


	9. Something's Got to Give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Merry Christmas. If you’re gonna fuck on my couch, please use protection.”
> 
> Mortification, rebuilding, and drama, with just a hint of danger.

Arms wrapped around Natasha, Bucky stood stock-still just inside the door, dumbstruck. 

Over the years, he and Steve had seen one another countless times, in various, innocent states of undress. Nudity wasn’t a big deal. But this was something else entirely. Locked in an endless feedback loop of _what the fuck_ , he wracked his brain for the appropriate response to busting in on his best pal getting off. He wondered, briefly, if he should turn around and leave, but his feet seemed rooted to the floor. “I thought you had plans.”

“Ohhh, oh my god.” Steve tugged at the blanket, attempting to salvage his dignity, while inescapably aware of Tony, naked and currently nestled between (and biting one of) Steve's thighs. “You said you’d be gone all day, remember?”

“Change of plans.” As he recovered from his initial state of shock, Bucky squinted at the blue-tinged glow visible through the ragged chenille bedspread. “You got a flashlight under there, pal? You gotta watch while you jerk it?”

From under the blanket, Tony cleared his throat. “I can assure you, I’ve never seen him use a flashlight for that.”

Natasha smirked. “So, this is what you meant by _‘going out for coffee.’_ ” 

Steve’s cheeks were crimson. “Nat…”

“For the record, we did actually go out for coffee.” After some wriggling around under the blanket, Tony peeped out. Wearing nothing but a smugly shameless expression, he’d situated himself between Steve and the back of the couch. “Yeah, nice little place a few blocks from here. You two should go check it out, my treat. Maybe go see a movie? I can give you some cash if someone hands me my pants.”

“Gee, Tony, it’s almost like you’re trying to get rid of us.” Natasha sauntered over to the discarded heap of clothing, grabbing Tony’s pants. Pushing Steve’s feet aside, she sat down at the end of the couch, crossing her legs and pointedly settling in. With a whistle, she glanced inside Tony’s wallet then handed it to him with a smile. “I thought you were going to take it slowly?”

“An argument could be made for _slow_ as a relative term.” With an insouciant smile, Tony looked at Steve, idly tracing a fingertip over the smooth expanse of his chest. “Besides, this guy’s not getting any younger.”

“I am in hell.” Bucky rolled his eyes, then disappeared into the bedroom, grumbling to himself. “Cock-blocked in my own fucking apartment.” 

Natasha leaned back against Steve’s legs, giving them a friendly pat. She leveled a no-nonsense gaze at Tony. “Must’ve been a good talk.” 

“I’m not sure if you mean ‘talk’ euphemistically or not, but yes.” Earlier this week, he’d told Natasha he was meeting Steve for coffee. She was supportive, of course, especially when he’d assured her he wasn’t going to make the mistake of rushing back into things. They needed to talk about, and work on, the profound trust and communication issues that got them into this mess in the first place. In theory, it sounded good. Smart. Responsible. In practice… he couldn’t fathom how he ever thought he’d be capable of it. 

“Imagine you’re underwater. Drowning. Lungs burning with the need for oxygen. You fight your way to the surface… but keep holding your breath, on principle.” Tony shrugged helplessly. “I couldn’t do it, Nat. I needed air.”

Combing his fingers through the indecent mess he’d made of Tony’s hair, Steve nodded his agreement. “It wasn’t what either of us planned. I dunno how to explain it, but this…,” his voice trailed off as he caught Tony’s hand in his, and squeezed three times. ”This is how we’re supposed to be.”

Abruptly, Bucky strode into the room and tossed a box of condoms onto the coffee table. “Merry Christmas. If you’re gonna fuck on my couch, please use protection.”

“Sound advice. From the look of the upholstery, who knows where this thing’s been.” Tony lifted the edge of the sheet, feigning horror at the grubby floral fabric beneath. “Fortunately, I’m up to date on all my shots.”

“Tony. You’re not helping.” Steve couldn’t help but grin at Tony, who blinked innocently at him. “We’re not going to need those right now, Buck. But thank you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got more. Keep ‘em.” Bucky pushed some books out of the way and sat on the edge of the coffee table. “Thanks for puttin’ a sheet down, at least. Does this mean you’re officially done campaignin’ for sainthood, Stevie?”

“I was never… _ugh_.” The rosy warmth in Steve’s cheeks deepened, his embarrassment undiminished in the last several minutes. Clutching the soft blue blanket to himself, he sighed. “I would like to get dressed now, if you guys aren’t leaving.”

“I just gave Natasha a wad of cash. Of course they’re leaving.” With an air of reassurance, Tony patted Steve’s chest and winked at him. 

“Oh yeah?” For the first time since they’d walked in, Bucky looked directly at Tony. His expression wasn’t hard to read - a defiant set to his jaw, and challenge in his eyes. _This is my house_. 

Just beneath the territorial attitude, Tony detected something else. It went beyond annoyance, bordering on actual hostility, for reasons he couldn’t pin down with any certainty. At least, not without more data. He said nothing, but arched an eyebrow as he met Bucky’s gaze.

“I’m gonna start a pot of coffee.” Bucky patted Natasha’s knee, then kissed her cheek as he stood up and headed for the kitchen. 

“Bright side? Could have gone worse.” Natasha picked up a handful of clothes and dropped it on her friends. Murmuring a quick apology, she headed to the kitchen, leaving Steve and Tony to get dressed.

They lay where they were for a moment. Tony looked at Steve, who was… _annoyed? Embarrassed? Having second thoughts?_ “Hey. I’m sorry. I clearly misread that entire--”

Frowning, Steve shook his head, and gave Tony a gentle squeeze. “No, don’t apologize. I don’t know why he’s... Just don’t say anything else, okay? Let me handle it.” 

Tony nodded and sank back against the cushions. _Ever heard the phrase ‘know your audience,’ genius? Yeah. Get on that._ Trying to distract himself from a rising wave of anxiety, he watched as Steve found his boxers and stepped into them. It was an effective distraction, amplified by his thwarted need to be fucked senseless. Seeing those boxers slide up over the firm musculature of Steve’s thighs was a goddamn torment, but he couldn’t bear to look away. He caught Steve’s eye, and smiled crookedly. Without a word, he tilted his head slightly, tapping a finger on his upturned cheek. 

“So bossy.” Steve smiled and leaned down to plant a kiss beside Tony’s fingertip. His voice was reassuringly teasing as he murmured against Tony’s ear, “Good thing I like you.”

After another gentle smooch, Steve walked to the kitchen, tugging his t-shirt over his head.

“--put Steve in an awkward position.” Natasha’s voice was low and measured. 

“Pretty sure I’m not the one who put him in that position, Nat.” Bucky was sitting on the kitchen counter, empty coffee cup in hand, waiting for the pot to brew. 

Shaking off the vivid mental image of exactly the position he’d been in when they first walked in, Steve planted himself in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed. “Buck. You mad at me?” 

“No.” Bucky squinted at what looked like a piece of oatmeal stuck to the inside of his mug, scratching at it with his thumbnail. “Although… Looks like someone’s been eatin’ oatmeal outta my special mug.”

“You did, remember? Two days ago. I told you the dishwasher wouldn’t get it all off.”

Bucky glared at Steve, ready to argue, his righteous indignation fizzling out in a flash of recollection. “Shit, you’re right. That reminds me, we’re out of oatmeal.” He grabbed a magnetic notepad off the side of the fridge, and wrote in large, neat letters, “OATMEAL, GODDAMN IT.” He returned the grocery list to its spot on the refrigerator, and lapsed back into a silent vigil over the coffee pot.

Steve hesitated, tempted to let it drop. Natasha gave him one of her patented _‘are you fucking kidding me’_ looks, so he tried again. “Isn’t this what you’ve been after me about all this time? Fixing things with Tony? I thought you’d be happy for me.”

“This ain’t about you, Steve.” 

“Then what is it about? Tony? I want to understand, Buck, but I can’t if you don’t talk to me.” 

Mouth hanging open, Bucky blinked at Steve. “That’s a good one, comin’ from the guy who spent the last month and a half dodging my questions and moping around on my couch.”

“Okay, I guess that’s fair.” Steve held up his hands in surrender. “I have a hard time talking about stuff, sometimes.”

Natasha coughed. “Both of you are terrible at it, not that anyone asked me. And don’t get me started on Tony.”

Steve and Bucky both looked at her, speechless. From the living room, Tony crowed his amusement. “Oh, please do. I’d love to hear this.”

Irritably, Bucky set his coffee mug on the counter. “Can we skip ahead to the part where you and your rich boyfriend get outta here, so I can have my place to myself again?”

“My rich boyfriend? Now I know you’re mad at me. Come on, Bucky. What’s all this about? Tony was just joking about you guys leaving.”

“If I’m entirely honest, no. I wasn’t.” Fully dressed and holding his keys, Tony joined the little conference. “Show of hands. Who here can honestly say they wouldn’t want to finish what was going on when you two came in?”

Flatly, Bucky replied, “Sucking Steve’s dick? Me.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Sex. As a general principle.”

“I got news for you, pal. Nat and I came home to _my apartment_ , with that general principle in mind.”

“First of all, I had no idea. Well, I had some idea. Twelve percent of an idea. But I didn’t realize you two were… currently involved.” Tony shoved his hands in his pockets. “That said, Natasha, we should probably talk later about that project you’re on.”

“Tony…” Natasha sighed loudly.

“Later. Places to be, projects to manage. A guy doesn’t get this rich without realizing time is money.” 

“A guy like _you_ doesn’t get that rich without a hell of a head start.” Bucky hopped off the counter, eyes narrowed, squaring off as he faced Tony. 

“Gee, I’d love to be able to thank my dead parents for that head start. But...” Everything was still too close to the surface, too raw, to hear this guy make even an oblique reference to his parents. Unaware of anything but the rage propelling him, Tony took a step forward. “Well... you know. _You were there_.”

“You lousy son of a--”

“Whoa…” Fluidly, Steve and Natasha moved to intercept them, their swift response preventing either of the would-be combatants from landing a punch. Natasha pulled up her sleeves, revealing she was armed and ready to zap both of them if they made a move. With one hand on Tony’s chest, and the other clutching a wad of Bucky’s t-shirt, Steve positioned himself between them.

Bucky looked down at Steve’s fist, then scowled at him. “You’re wrinkling my wolves.”

Steve shrugged slightly, without releasing either of them. “So stand down and I’ll let go. Both of you.”

Fists clenched at his sides, Tony stood rigid and glowering, silently daring Bucky to make a move. He wanted blood, goddammit. Realistically, without some tech to level the playing field a bit, he knew he didn’t stand a chance in a fistfight with Barnes. He could maybe hope to throw one solid punch, but after that? His closing-in-on-fifty body versus that of an enhanced supersoldier in his prime? Even without that metal arm, Tony had to admit, the odds were in Barnes’ favor. 

Besides, Tony reminded himself, he wasn’t an absolute troglodyte. He didn’t have to resolve his conflicts with his fists. It could be just as satisfying to verbally destroy someone, and he just happened to have a thousand shitty insults lined up and begging to be unleashed. 

But Steve was standing there, in his t-shirt and boxers, looking at him with those pleading puppydog eyes. Tony couldn’t do it. Not like this. As much as he wanted to lash out at Barnes, he was unwilling to hurt Steve. Resigned, he relaxed his fists and stepped back, smoothing the wrinkles on the front of his shirt.

“Thanks for the hospitality.” Tony fished his keys out of his pocket and headed for the door, grabbing his jacket along the way. He needed fresh air and some distance before he changed his mind and did something stupid.

“Tony, wait.” Steve released his grip on Bucky’s shirt and followed Tony into the hall, reaching for his hand. “I thought we weren’t giving up when things get tough?”

“I’m not giving up, Steve, not on you. I’m giving up on that shitshow of a conversation. I’m giving Barnes what he wants right now - me, out of his home. It doesn’t change anything between us.” Tony hesitated, his eyes fixed on Steve’s, gauging his reaction. “Unless you think it does.” 

He didn’t mean for it to come out like that, as a challenge, or worse, a test for Steve. _Well, maybe a little bit._ Everything had been so screwed up for so long, he was afraid to take anything for granted. 

”No, of course not. What happened back there wasn’t about you and me.” Steve squeezed Tony’s hand. “You know how much I want to be with you right now. I just need a little time to talk to him. Can I come by in a bit?”

Relaxing, Tony nodded. Hooking a finger in the waistband of Steve’s boxers, he pulled him in for a kiss. “Don’t be too long. If he doesn’t want to talk and be reasonable, give him space. I’ve found that works wonders, at least with some old, stubborn supersoldiers.”

Steve planted a gentle smooch on the tip of Tony’s nose. “Works pretty well with old, stubborn geniuses, too.”

**********

Bucky and Natasha weren’t in the kitchen. The coffee pot, carafe full of freshly brewed coffee, was switched off. The kitten mug, abandoned on the counter, still had a piece of oatmeal stuck to the inside of it.

“I’ve been up since yesterday morning. I need a nap.” Bucky stood in the bedroom doorway, chewing on his lower lip. His discarded jeans were in a heap on the floor behind him, but he was unwavering in his commitment to his _Three Wolf Moon_ shirt. “You know how I get when I haven’t slept, Stevie.”

“Yeah, I do. I just--”

“I shouldn’t have said that shit. I know.” 

“Things are tense right now, Buck. I get it. You guys both have a lot on your minds. So do I.”

Natasha emerged from the bathroom, wearing what Steve recognized one of Bucky’s recently acquired thrift store t-shirts. “Hey.”

“Nice bison,” Steve said. 

“It was this or an eagle wearing sunglasses.”

“Tough call.”

“Exactly.” Natasha slipped past Bucky, into the bedroom. She looked around for someplace to set her clothes, eventually dropping them on top of his jeans. 

Bucky slouched against the doorframe. “Gonna go catch some z’s. You taking off?” 

“Yeah, I’ll be outta your hair soon. I may spend the weekend at Tony’s place. Give you some space.”

“Stevie, listen, I was just bein’ an asshole. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you ain’t welcome here.” Exhausted, Bucky extended his arms in a conciliatory gesture, beckoning Steve in for a quick hug. “I’m sorry. Tell Stark I said that, will ya? Tell him I said sorry. I mean it.”

“Thanks, Buck. I will. And I’m sure he didn’t mean the thing about you and his parents.”

“Ehhh, yeah, he did. Can’t say I blame him for that.” Bucky shrugged. “Sometimes, you gotta lance a boil, ya know? Anyway. I’m dead on my feet, pal.”

“Go to bed, already. Captain’s orders.” Steve grinned as Bucky offered a sleepy salute before shuffling into the bedroom. 

Feeling slightly better, Steve went back to the living room to finish getting dressed. His jeans and sweater were still on the couch, buried under the rumpled bedding. After a quick look around the room, he crouched down, groping around under the couch until he found both of his socks. 

Natasha emerged from the bedroom, pulling the door closed behind her. She perched on the arm of the couch, patting Steve’s shoulder while he tied his boots. “You know they’re never going to be best friends, right? ”

Steve shrugged noncommittally. “I guess part of me still hopes that, with time, they’ll find common ground.”

“They have common ground. You.” She pursed her lips. “Unfortunately, their only other common ground is Howard and Maria. Tony will never be able to put his parents’ murder behind him.”

“And Bucky will never forgive himself for something he had no control over. It makes no sense.” 

“You know how Clint says he sees better from a distance? These two are too tangled up in this thing. They can’t step back from it, to see it the way we do.”

Steve couldn't deny the logic of what she was saying, but the voice of hope in him refused to be quelled. “Maybe not today.”

“Your optimism is admirable. It really is.” Natasha chuckled. “But you know how Tony gets in December.”

“So what you’re saying is, maybe after the holidays.” Steve grinned, good-naturedly failing to dodge an exasperated shove. “I should probably go. He’s expecting me.”

“That reminds me… stay there.” Natasha disappeared into the bedroom, returning with the cash she’d accepted from Tony for the _coffee and a movie_ that never happened. She handed it over with Steve’s car keys. “You’ll probably want those.”

**********

The penthouse was mostly unchanged, although holiday decorating appeared to be underway. A massive, half-decorated, silvery Christmas tree stood near the piano, surrounded by open boxes of colored lights and decorations. The fireplace was lit, and Bing Crosby was crooning a festive tune in the background when Steve walked in.

Tony peeked out from behind the tree, box of ornaments in hand. “Hey. Want to help me finish up here?”

“You need help with the higher branches?” Steve grinned and kissed Tony’s cheek. 

“Cute.” Tony set aside an empty box and grabbed another, handing it to Steve. The packaging was old and faded, marked with an ancient Woolworth’s price tag of sixty-five cents. The blown-glass ornaments within were in pristine condition.

“Where’d you get all this? It reminds me of the stuff we had when I was a kid.”

“My mother loved this time of year. She had a collection of vintage lights and ornaments from way back. Howard hired people to come in and decorate the house for Christmas, but Mom insisted on decorating one tree the way she liked it.” A hint of a smile played at the corners of Tony’s mouth. “She was so soft-spoken. Gentle. But when she set her mind on something, there was no stopping her.”

“I bet Howard loved that about her.”

Tony didn’t say anything, but disappeared behind the tree, breathing through the momentary constriction in his throat. He began humming along with Frank Sinatra’s rendition of “The Christmas Waltz,” which was, as he pointed out every year, “the only correct way to sing this fucking song.” 

Each ornament that passed through Tony’s hands was carefully placed, following a lengthy contemplation of the tree, as though he were running mathematical calculations to determine the precise gap destined to house this ornament for the season. Steve did his admittedly non-mathematical best to work within what he guessed were the parameters of the task at hand, quietly chuckling as Tony followed behind him, ever-so-slightly adjusting the placement of Steve’s ornaments. 

“What?” Tony looked at him, wide-eyed. “I was just making sure everything’s secure.”

“I didn’t say a word.”

Cloaked in thick clouds, the muted light of the late afternoon sun was sliding past the horizon as they hung (and re-hung) the last of the ornaments. With satisfaction, they stepped back from the tree to admire their work. In Tony’s estimation, the distribution of color and light over the silver branches was damn near perfect. He’d utterly outdone himself this time. Granted, he told himself that every year, but this time he meant it. Steve had helped him with the tree this time. It felt different, sharing it with him. 

Steve’s face was aglow, the jewel-toned light gracing his skin recalling the luminous beauty of cathedral windows Tony remembered from childhood. He’d been dragged from one end of Europe to the other when he was too young to really appreciate any of it, but he remembered the light from the windows, transfiguring every surface it touched. The analogy was imperfect, of course. The actual beneficiary in this scenario was the light from the Christmas tree, not what it was touching. Not that analogies mattered, anyway. Steve was smiling at him now, and everything else was receding. All that was left was light and color and Steve.

“It’s really somethin’, Tone.” Steve’s voice was hushed and reverent. “Why haven’t we decorated a tree together before now?”

He thought about that. He didn’t want to say, _"Because I was afraid to share this part of me with you,”_ or, _“Because I needed a secret from you, when you had one from me.”_ Maybe some of that was true before. But there was a much simpler reason, one that was undeniably true, and more than enough. “Because every year, this is the one I decorate. For Mom.” 

“Thank you for letting me help.”

“I didn’t _let_ you.” Tony smiled and interlaced his fingers with Steve’s. “I _asked_ you.”

This was it, right here. Joy. Unbelievable fucking joy. He could feel Steve beaming at him, and it was perfect. Tony didn’t want to move. He just wanted to stand in this exact spot, holding his hand, tingling with life, immersed in the here and now. Sharing a moment like this was everything he had ever wanted.

“Listen, I don’t want to get ahead of myself here, ” Steve began. His voice trailed off as he considered his next words.

“Try me.”

“Today was… _this_... was really nice. And I know, things got a little dicey with you and Bucky for a bit there, which we can talk about later, because it absolutely doesn’t have any bearing on...” Steve paused to take a breath, refocusing his train of thought. “I don’t want you to go back to New York yet. I want us to be… _us_ again. I mean, together. Here. And tonight…?”

“Do you really need a formal invitation to know I want you to stay with me tonight? And tomorrow night, and every night after that?” Tony quirked an eyebrow. “Because I’ll write it down, if you want. I can’t vouch for my penmanship, though.”

“Just… to be clear… when you say every night--”

“My turn to get ahead of myself, I guess.” With a disarmingly lopsided grin, Tony faced Steve, clasping both his hands. “Let’s just say, for the foreseeable future, I want you here, with me. Everything’s better with you around, Steve. I’m better, with you at my side.”

Steve didn’t say anything, but leaned in and kissed Tony. It was slow and deliberate, the inviting softness of Steve’s lips carefully conveying what was in his heart, offering a persuasive case for the depth of his feelings for Tony. They still had so much to talk about, so much catching up, but in this moment, this was everything they needed. No rush for the bedroom, no scramble to disrobe; just a warm, lingering kiss that was content to simply be. A kiss that seemed to say, _“I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”_

When their lips parted, Steve breathed a contented sigh. “Wow.”

“Mm-hmm.” Tony purred agreeably, snaking his arms around Steve’s waist. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be lulled by the gentle, rhythmic sound of their breaths. He was vaguely aware of his too-empty stomach, which had been neglected all day. He was about to suggest ordering something for dinner when his phone started to buzz.

With Steve’s eyes practically boring holes into him, Tony pulled out his phone, swearing under his breath as he skimmed over a series of incoming messages from Natasha. Mind already working on a series of contingency plans, he looked up at Steve.

“We have a problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot of notes this time around. If you can't tell from the story so far, I really, truly love all these characters. These last few chapters have allowed me to begin to hint at my enormous love for Bucky Barnes. I'm intrigued by his depth of interior life and thought, but also the ways he relates to his oldest friend in the world, and (obviously) the understandably prickly nature of things between he and Tony.
> 
> Suffice to say, I think Bucky is the kind of guy who finds wildlife t-shirts at the thrift store, and unironically loves (and buys, and wears) them. Did this update take too long to edit because I've wasted time (badly) photoshopping Three Wolf Moon t-shirts onto him? Maybe.
> 
> There is some serious shit brewing for next time. That's all I'm gonna say about that for now. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and leaving thoughtful feedback. I get such a kick out of reading your reactions, you guys.


	10. The Things I've Left Unsaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three steps forward, two steps back.

Natalia was watching him when he woke up. Their legs were intertwined, pinning his waking erection between them. She smiled softly at him in the dim twilight, and asked, “Do you want me, James?” 

It was a silly question. It was hard to remember a time when he didn’t want her. 

It wasn’t that he couldn’t remember the women he’d known in his old life. As a young man, fresh out of school, he’d discovered a talent for charming the ladies of the neighborhood. The girls his age were temptingly pretty, but the ones he found himself drawn to were ultimately the ones who taught him the most -- a few years older, more experienced, and more likely to tell him what they wanted. Some of them were married, and one or two were widowed. It didn’t much matter to him, back then. He liked the way they responded to his sweetly filthy mouth, especially when he applied it non-verbally. 

When he joined the Army, he was surprised to hear guys talk about considering themselves “generous” lovers if, once in a while, they did more than just stick their dick in a woman. To hear these humanitarians tell it, it was a great goddamn gift to use your mouth to make a woman moan. It was like they were from another planet or something. He didn’t consider himself generous. He needed a faceful of cunt, needed to taste a woman and make her writhe for him. It wouldn’t be generous to breathe regularly, or sleep at the end of a day. So how the fuck was this generosity?

Even so, somehow, everything intensified when he met Natalia. She taught him what it was to need, not in a generalized sense, but to crave her, and her alone. He could never have enough of her. The way he saw it, he was the most selfish man in the world, willing to do damn near anything for another taste of her.

So when her phone began ringing, she ignored it, assuring him, “You’re too good at this, James. Keep going.” The sounds she made, and the way her thighs clenched around his ears, were enough to drive him to the brink. When she finally rolled him onto his back and slid a condom over the length of his cock, he swore softly, ready to explode. She straddled him, her mouth curved up in a lasciviously authoritative smile. “I’ll take it from here.”

Later, as they lay naked and tangled in blankets, the phone rang again. Sitting up, she grabbed the phone. “Sorry, darling, duty calls.”

**********

Walking to the kitchen, Tony’s jaw clenched as he tapped furiously at his phone. He just needed a moment to make sense of this colossal fucking failure. “Goddammit.”

“What’s wrong? Talk to me, Tony.”

Tony opened the refrigerator, realizing even as he opened it, he hadn’t bothered restocking it yet. Irritably, he muttered to himself and pushed jars of condiments from one side of the refrigerator to the other, finally slamming the door shut. “Hang on.” He composed and sent a quick text message. After allowing himself a moment to breathe, he started from the beginning.

“There’s a book we need. It has crucial information about what those bastards did to your friend’s head. From what we’ve been able to gather, there’s a trigger sequence in it, among other things. You see where I’m going with this? With my tech, and that book, I think we stand a solid chance of undoing what they did to him. We could give him his mind back.”

Briskly, Tony headed down the stairs to his lab, with Steve in tow. He needed to look at this from every angle, and do some quick coding while he was at it.

“If it’s even possible... that would really be something.” Steve was still nervous about trying anything that could trigger Bucky’s programming, but he had to admit, it was hard to justify leaving things as they were. “So, we know where this book is?”

“Knew. Past tense.” Tony scrubbed his hands over his face, drawing a deep breath and slowly exhaling. He brought up the files sent over by Natasha, along with some updates from Maria Hill. “We got some intel on a former HYDRA agent… from what Natasha was able to dig up, it sounds like he was involved with the Winter Soldier program. We had a goddamn net around the guy. Widow and Falcon were supposed to be making a move this week.”

“Wait, we lost him?”

Soberly, Tony nodded and pointed to a composite video feed, as he began pulling up several systems he needed to update. “We have a team combing the area, and searching the house. It’s a long shot, but on the off-chance he left the book...”

“There’s no way he’d leave something that valuable behind. It might be his only leverage at this point. Sounds like we need our best people on the ground.” 

Steve was looking at Tony expectantly, with the _“put me in, coach!”_ gleam in his eyes that usually signaled his readiness to kick ass on a field assignment. It was one of the things Tony loved about him. He hated to deflate that can-do enthusiasm. But honesty was the best policy, right?

Deliberately avoiding eye contact, Tony continued typing, going for a sort of _business casual_ approach to ruining Steve’s day. “With that agent on the run, until we get our hands on the book, we have to assume there’s a heightened risk. With regard to Barnes, I mean.”

“Are you’re saying what I think you’re saying?” 

_And there it is -- the faint hiss of deflating enthusiasm._ Tony gritted his teeth. It was about to get much worse, but there was no point in candy-coating any of it. _Once more, unto the breach…_ He turned, forcing himself to meet Steve’s gaze. “We need to bring him in. He needs to be in a secure facility, under surveillance, until we know we have this situation under control.”

Steve sighed and shook his head, unable to hide his disappointment. “He’s not gonna like that.” 

“I don’t give a shit right now whether he _likes_ it, Steve,” Tony snapped. He immediately regretted raising his voice, knowing it would only inflame an already heated situation. He took a steadying breath, and tried a softer approach. “Okay, that wasn’t… exactly what I meant to say. I do care. But I can’t allow that to sway my judgment. I know he’s your friend, and I know you think you’re looking out for him, but he is in danger. And he is incredibly dangerous.”

“Yeah, but you’re not just talking about hiding him someplace. You’re talking about locking him up, and he hasn’t done anything.”

“Okay, first of all… _Anything?_ Are you actually--” 

Trying to understand, Steve reached for Tony’s hand. “Is this about your parents? I understand that your feelings are still tender--”

“You think this is some kind of personal vendetta?” Bristling with indignation, Tony yanked his hand away. “Did you actually read that entire file you gave me? All the assassinations over the years? As I recall, it was a long list, even without my Mom on it.”

They stood in silence, glaring at one another, as the displays around them flashed periodically with incoming updates. Tony turned to face the live video feed. His guts were twisted up in an angry knot. He hated that he’d been put in this position, hated that he had to disappoint Steve so soon after they’d made a tentative step toward rebuilding their shattered relationship. 

In a small, pleading voice, Steve finally said, “Tony, I’m asking you, please don’t do this. For me.”

“I don’t know how I can make this any clearer to you.” With a long-suffering sigh, Tony closed his eyes, shutting out some of the excess sensory input that was suddenly aggravating the hell out of him. He took a moment, then tried one more time, with every ounce of sincerity he could muster. “We can’t afford to take a chance on him winding up in the wrong hands. I’m not putting him in jail. This is… protective custody, if anything. Protecting him and a lot of innocent people.”

Steve looked at him with a hesitant expression, like maybe he wanted to be persuaded. Grudgingly, he uttered one word. “Where?” 

“Here. Not in the penthouse, obviously. But downstairs I have… well, I guess you’d call it a bunker. It’s built to withstand missiles. State of the art tech, proprietary security features, and plenty of room for him to settle in and live comfortably while we fix this mess.”

Steve nodded, obviously considering Tony’s words carefully, before asking, “So… just so I’m clear on this... you’d be the guy holding the keys? You don’t see _any_ conflict of interest there?” 

Wincing, Tony looked at the floor. Having his motives questioned stung, especially given the day’s emotional breakthroughs. Shoulders sagging, he suddenly didn’t have the heart to defend himself. “I see.”

Steve shifted uneasily, his voice barely audible as he turned away. “Maybe Natasha has a point. We still have a lot to sort out.” 

Tony closed his eyes, trying not to notice the sound of Steve trudging up the stairs. He tried not to wonder whether Steve would leave again, instead forcing himself to focus on one breath at a time. For a few breaths, anyway. Was it too much to ask Steve to have a little faith in him? Too much to hope he wouldn’t assume the worst every fucking time? With or without his support, Tony had to do this, but it would be so much easier if he knew Steve was on his side. 

There was too much work to do to waste time arguing with him right now.

He turned his attention to finishing the necessary security updates for the lower level. Fiddling with his tech was (almost) always soothing. And in this case, it was necessary. He’d set up the facility as an emergency shelter for himself ages ago. It wasn’t intended to be a holding cell for a super-powered assassin, but with a few minor coding modifications to the access points, it would do. 

Several minutes, and many lines of code later, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Time to welcome their guest. Steeling himself, he headed upstairs.

“How the hell have you kept this place off the radar til now?” Natasha emerged from the elevator, suited up for the mission. She was closely followed by Bucky, who was carrying a duffel bag and backpack. His expression was almost deceptively serene, but his eyes darted about, as he assessed his surroundings. He reminded Tony a little of a cornered dog, except this cornered dog had incredibly lethal opposable thumbs. He’d need some reassurance. Obviously.

Assuming the demeanor of gracious host, Tony smiled and put a friendly arm around Natasha’s shoulders. He kept his voice light and full of charm. “It’s kind of a shell game. Secret accounts, fake names, and greasing the right wheels. Also, not putting my name on the building seems to throw people off. It’s so unlike me.”

He lead them on a brief tour of the penthouse, pausing outside his bedroom door. He knocked gently before opening the door a few inches to peek in at Steve. “We have company. You wanna come say hi or should I say you’re not home?” 

Pointedly ignoring Tony, Steve brushed past him on his way to his friend. “Buck, what have they told you? You don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to.”

“Hey, it’s okay. I told him everything. This is his choice.” Natasha laid her hand on Steve’s arm. “I need you boys to take it from here. Get him underground, play Scrabble with him, just keep him safe. If anyone comes for him, do what you have to do. But try to keep them alive, if possible, for interrogation.”

Steve’s gaze was still locked on Bucky, as he awaited a response. Natasha’s reassurance was helpful, but Steve needed to hear it from him. “Talk to me, pal.”

“If I stay in my apartment, I’m a sittin’ duck.” His response radiated bone-deep exhaustion, reinforced by the too-familiar _“I’m getting too old for this shit”_ look in his eyes.

Gripping Bucky’s upper arms, Steve shook his head. “That doesn’t mean you have to do this. We could go somewhere else, keep moving, until things settle down.”

“That’s just a different kinda cage, Stevie. It’s like I’ve told you before, I’m done runnin’. I have a life here now.” Bucky smiled weakly. “Besides, it’s safer for everyone if I’m off the streets.”

With a reluctant nod, Steve relented. He couldn’t argue with Bucky, if this was really what he wanted. Natasha appeared anxious to be on her way, so he stepped back, allowing them a moment to say goodbye. 

Tony had his hands in his pockets, slouching against the wall and staring at his shoes in an excruciating attempt to appear nonchalant. He risked a furtive glance at Steve, who was watching him. Their eyes met just long enough for the mutual hurt feelings to be inescapable. Sighing, Tony jerked his head toward the bedroom, silently mouthing, _“Come on.”_ Arms folded over his chest, Steve followed him through the door.

“Listen, I know you are pissed at me right now, and there’s no point in my pretending the feeling isn’t really fucking mutual. But I need to know you’re on board, even if you disagree.” With an eye on the semi-public display of affection underway out in the hallway, Tony lowered his voice. “I need you to help me keep him safe. If I give you access to that level, I’m going out on a hell of a limb. Extending trust. I want to trust you, Steve. Would that be a mistake?”

For an uncomfortably long moment, Steve appeared to be debating the question in his mind. His answer, when it came, was laced with gall. “No. He made his choice, and made it pretty clear I’m in the minority here. My objections are irrelevant, apparently.” 

“I guess that’ll have to do. We should head down and get him secured.”

After escorting Natasha to the elevator, he focused on the task at hand. Leading Steve and Bucky downstairs to the lab, he walked up to a wall and said to no-one in particular, “When I was a kid, I always wanted a house with a secret door.” 

The wall slid aside, revealing a thick metal door with a keypad and biometric scanner beside it. Tony placed his hand on the scanner, and the door opened onto a small hallway with what appeared to be a service elevator and a locked stairwell. After repeating the authentication process at the elevator door, he gestured for his companions to step inside. 

When he pressed the button for the sub-basement level, Black Sabbath’s “Into the Void” began to play. Tony stifled a laugh. “Oh, I programmed that when I built this as a fallout shelter. It seemed funny at the time. Yeah… I’ll just disable audio. Unless you were into that?” 

Abruptly, the music stopped. They stood in uncomfortable silence, facing the doors, as the elevator made its way from the penthouse to the bunker beneath the building. 

Stepping out of the elevator, Tony lead the way to what he called “the retreat center.” Behind another set of thick metal doors, there was a surprisingly comfortable suite of rooms. Its mid-century “Atomic Age” interior design served as a smirking tribute to the golden era of bomb shelters.

“There’s a t.v. built into that wall. Remote’s on the couch. Every channel you could possibly want. I noticed you’re a reader, so there are a bunch of books in the bedroom. I can bring down more if you’d like.” Tony felt awkward. He knew it was necessary, but that didn’t make it any easier to actually lock someone into this graciously appointed kitsch dungeon. “Er, did Natasha take your phone, just in case they were tracking it?” 

Bucky nodded. “She took care of it.”

“Right. In this closet over here, there are plenty of linens, blankets, towels… extra soap and so forth. This panel has an intercom. If you need anything, press this button. There are some canned goods in the kitchen, and I have fresh groceries on the way. If you have any special requests, make a list and we’ll see to it.”

“Got it.” Bucky flopped down on the couch, stretching out and settling in. He picked up the remote and pointed it at the wall, clicking repeatedly until he found a nature program about wolves, narrated by an unflappable British man. “It ain’t the Ritz, but it’ll do.”

Tony turned toward the door, hesitating by the scanner. “Hopefully, this won’t be more than a day or two. A week, tops.” He stepped into the hall, with Steve right behind him. Bucky waved distractedly as the door closed behind them.

They made their way back to the lab, with Tony teaching Steve the codes for each checkpoint along the way. He filled the gaps by explaining the various biometric systems he’d put in place. He knew most of it would go over Steve’s head, but couldn’t stop talking. He felt anxious about everything. Steve didn’t say anything, other than the occasional acknowledgement of a new code he needed to memorize. 

After the lab wall slid back into place, Tony looked over at Steve. He seemed to be a million miles away, untouchable and closed off.

“I have something of yours upstairs. You might want it back.” He began walking, resolutely not looking back to see whether Steve was following. 

He headed for the bedroom and turned on the light in the walk-in closet. There was a row of Steve’s clothing hanging there - neatly pressed trousers and jeans, crisp plaid button-down shirts and the _tiny-until-stretched-over-all-this_ tees he favored. At the end of the row was one of his uniforms, and on the floor beneath it, his shield. Tony gestured vaguely at the shield, and said quietly, “In case things go sideways.”

Steve reached out to touch one of the shirts. “I’ve been looking for this shirt. I forgot I left so much stuff here.”

“It spent a few days on the bedroom floor, after I kicked the suitcase off the bed.” Tony’s mouth was twisted into a bitter smile, as he did his damnedest to make light of one of the worst nights of his life. “Once I realized you weren’t coming back, I put it all back in here. I didn’t need the daily reminder of how much I’d fucked things up.”

Softening a little, Steve shook his head. “We both know none of that would have happened if I’d been honest with you all along.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this right now.” He hit the light switch on his way out the door. “Pep’s on her way with food.”

Steve reached for Tony’s shoulder. “No, we should talk about this, because if we keep putting it off, we’re never-- wait, Pepper knows about this place?” 

“She does now. You and I are too high profile to be running around town, buying groceries and calling attention to ourselves. She’s got the freedom of greater anonymity.” 

Tony headed for the living room, which was still strewn with ornament boxes around the Christmas tree. He picked up the strays and tucked them into the larger containers before snapping lids on them. “JARVIS, the cleanup crew needs to put these storage bins away.” 

Moments later, a few of the resident household bots appeared and began carting the bins away. Under the pretense of supervising them, Tony stood by the fireplace, staring at the Christmas tree. He allowed his eyes to relax, unfocused, until the lights bled together in a diffuse glow of color. It was soothing, a momentary reprieve from conflict and danger, and even if he couldn’t escape into it for very long, it took the edge off his mood.

Tony turned to look at Steve, who was lying down on the couch, lost in thought. He couldn’t tell if Steve wanted to be left alone, or if he desperately needed a hug. He was considering asking, when his phone buzzed. “She’s on her way up.”

**********

The elevator floor was littered with bags of groceries. Pepper stood in their midst, holding bags of carryout Chinese food. Her eyebrows flew up at the sight of Steve.

“Oh. Hi. I mean… Tony, you didn’t tell me you had company. Although that explains why you asked for so much food.” 

“Here, let me get those for you,” Steve said as he looped the handles of several bags over his forearms and carried them off to the kitchen.

Pepper watched him disappear around the corner, then squinted at Tony, whispering, “You’re back together? When did this happen? Why am I always the last to know?”

Tony patted her on the arm, shushing her. “It’s still very tentative. I didn’t want to say anything until I had something to tell.”

“You mean you didn’t want me to rain on your parade.” She poked Tony’s arm, then smiled brightly as Steve returned for another load. “Nice to see you again, Steve. I like the beard.” 

Picking up on the tension in the air, Steve offered a hesitant smile. “Thanks, Pepper. Good to see you too. This was awfully nice of you to do.” He disappeared into the kitchen again, giving them space to talk. 

Tony waited for the sounds of him unloading groceries before responding. “No, I just know how worked up you got when I told you we’d split up before. No point getting you riled up all over again over nothing.”

“Your logic is dazzling as ever, Tony.” She rolled her eyes, grinning appreciatively at him. “So… do I stay for a bit? Do I go? What’s the etiquette here?”

“Hmm… have you eaten? We might be able to spare you an egg roll. Maybe a tiny bowl of rice.”

“I can’t stay long, but I would love some dinner,” Pepper said, adding dryly, “I mean, if you’re sure Steve won’t go hungry.”

“You raise a good point. It takes a lot of food to fill out those tight shirts.” Tony patted her on the back, urging her in the direction of the kitchen.

“This place is charming. I’m so glad you kept some of the Art Deco details. Now all you need is a little terrier, and you two can pretend you’re Nick and Nora Charles.”

Tony blinked inquisitively. “...Nick and Nora...?” 

“Hey, I love those movies. Saw the first one with my mom. Gosh, she loved William Powell.” Steve grinned amiably at Pepper, visibly relieved to have something to talk about as he finished putting away the groceries. He beckoned them over, pulling a stack of plates from the cupboard. “I had to drag Bucky to see the next one with me.”

It was fleeting, the shadow that dimmed Steve’s sociable attempt at cheer, but Tony knew him too well to miss it. Maybe it was a mistake, inviting her to stay. This situation with Barnes was obviously weighing on Steve. He probably wanted to talk. Hell, maybe he was reconsidering their reconciliation. 

Whatever it was, Tony needed to maintain an appearance of normalcy until she left, even though he was sure Pepper could be trusted. She’d always had his back, and would never willingly betray him. But she also hated the risks he took, and told him so whenever the opportunity presented itself. She didn’t like hearing about some of the shit he got into, even after it was all settled. _“Hey Pep, funny story. Remember the guy who murdered my parents? I have him locked up in the basement.”_ Yeah, out of the question. Best stick to talking about the weather and the arts tonight.

“Pepper, the dining room’s that way. Make yourself comfortable. We’ll be right in.” With a light touch, Tony took hold of Steve’s hand, making gentle circles with his thumb. Steve turned his hand over to interlace their fingers. Their eyes met and held. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah.” Steve glanced over his shoulder toward the dining room. He looked at their clasped hands. “I’m sorry about earlier. I was an idiot. And a jerk.”

“Me too. I mean, I’m sorry, too. And, actually, also a jerk.” Tony released a shaky breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He reached up, indulgently brushing his fingertips over Steve’s bearded jawline. “I know we should probably talk… really clear the air. After she leaves, I promise, I’m all yours. We can talk, or watch some cornball old movies, or just take turns apologizing to each other repeatedly… whatever you want.”

“ _Whatever_ I want?” Steve licked his lips, the gleam in his eyes unmistakable. “I have a list, you know. And it starts with me carrying you to the bedroom.”

In the dining room, Pepper cleared her throat. “A glass of wine would be great. Yeah. Pick whatever will go best with dinner.” 

Sheepishly, Steve stifled a laugh and piled the containers of food on the stack of plates. “We should probably get in there.”

With a conspiratorial gleam in his eye, Tony stuck out an arm, slipping between Steve and the counter. “This may sound crazy, but hear me out. It’s not too late for me to feign a headache and send her home with a doggy bag.”

“A headache?” Steve leaned closer, his lips grazing Tony’s ear as he asked, “Are you telling me you’re aching right now?” 

The hint of rasp in his voice was what did it. It got into Tony’s veins, coursing through him like liquid fire, burning away everything but the touch of Steve’s lips, and a searing awareness of hot breath raising the hairs on his neck. Nodding slowly, he bit his lip. 

“For me?” Steve whispered, nuzzling at his earlobe. “Say it, Tony. I want to hear you say it.”

Tony’s eyes fluttered closed, and he swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. With effort, he managed a husky, “Yes. Aching for you. Always.” 

Administering a lingering kiss just behind Tony’s ear, Steve murmured a satisfied, “Good.” 

Expectation hanging heavy in the air, Tony’s arms wrapped around Steve’s waist. In his mind, he was already composing variations on a brief but sincere apology. _‘Gee, Pepper, I know you just got here, but it’s been a really long day and I’m pretty sure my balls are turning blue. Steve needs to examine them. With his mouth.’_

“So…,” Tony’s hands slid down to squeeze Steve’s posterior. 

Groaning under his breath, Steve threw his head back, praying for strength. When he looked down at Tony again, he looked apologetic. “I’m so tempted… but she already thinks I’m a heel, for everything I put you through. Don’t deny it. When she saw me, she looked disappointed.” 

“The misplaced loyalty of an old friend.”

Steve shook his head. Cradling Tony’s face in his hands, he said firmly, “Loyalty to you isn’t misplaced. If I’d done right by you, you’d know that.” 

With those sincere eyes fixed on him, Tony couldn’t deflect his gentle admonishment with another attempt at self-deprecation. Not aloud, anyway. _Old habits something something._ “You’d better carry that stuff to the table, or I swear, I will kiss you til you can’t see straight.”

“You say that like it’d be a bad thing.” Steve pressed his lips to Tony’s in a quick kiss. Grabbing the plates and food, he turned to go, saying over his shoulder, “Hey. Don’t forget the wine.”

**********

Stark was right about one thing.

Bucky had every imaginable channel at his disposal. All of them were full of crap, but there were plenty of them. _Click… click… click…_ An endless cycle of _‘what’s on tv? not a goddamn thing!’_ lay before him. He just wanted something to occupy his mind for a while. He didn’t want to think about his present living quarters, or the fact that he had to be here because he couldn’t trust his own mind. 

And then there was the surreal bullshit of being asked to put his life in the hands of the one person who probably wanted him dead more than HYDRA did. How many hours had it been since he and Stark almost came to blows? Probably not enough for Stark to shake the feeling of wanting to take a swing. His parents were violently murdered. And no amount of logic could take away the inevitable pain of looking at, let alone _housing_ , the guy who did that to them.

Nat respected Stark, even if she didn’t always agree with him. She considered him a friend. If she could trust him, Bucky had no choice but to try to do the same. Emphasis on _try_.

Waking up next to her, he’d felt so hopeful. She wasn’t a hazy, half-remembered face from his past anymore. She was warm, and soft, and smelled like a fucking dream. She knew, and shared, his broken past. She understood what it meant to lose everything, including yourself. Knowing they’d both lived through unspeakable things, he could let down his guard when he was with her. And yet, despite all that, she insisted they had reason to hope for better days to come. For the first time in too long to fathom, he’d allowed himself a moment of peace, in her arms. 

Of course, that couldn’t last, because nothing good ever did. They got one good day together -- no, not even that. Part of a day. And now his Natalia was gone, risking her life to fix things for him, while he was stuck here as Stark’s guest.

Not that being out there was any better. Life on the run was hard enough when you knew the faces to fear. But they had an unfair advantage, in that there was no way for him to know all of their faces, while they only needed to know his. Getting caught might not mean death. Not for him, anyway. But it’d probably mean more ghostly faces haunting the dark corners of his fucked up, ramshackle mess of a brain. Maybe even the faces of people he loved. _‘No,’_ the universe seemed to be saying, _‘Joke’s on you, pal. Being locked up in Stark’s basement is literally the best option for you.’_ The universe could be a real asshole, sometimes.

Exhausted by this entire line of thought, and getting no help from surfing the wasteland of programming, he stopped clicking and set the remote aside, resigned to watching whatever he’d landed on. 

“What the hell is this shit?” He stared blankly at a baby-faced man sloppily tearing into a hamburger. His sunglasses were on the back of his spiky, bleached-blond head, and his shirt was covered with stylized flames. It was simultaneously the best and worst thing Bucky had ever seen on tv. He couldn’t look away. Somehow, watching this guy get meat drippings all over his goddamn bowling shirt was exactly what he needed right now.

**********

“I was starting to think you’d gotten lost.” Pepper accepted the wine glass from Tony. “Thank goodness Steve was here to keep me entertained.”

“Thank goodness.” Noting the sketchbook on the table, Tony quirked an eyebrow. He took a seat next to Steve. “Did he stick to showing you the PG-rated stuff?”

Affecting a deliberately snobby air, Pepper intoned, “Life drawings are a celebration of the human form. There was nothing in there you couldn’t see in a museum.”

“I’m pretty sure my balls aren’t in a museum.”

“That’s because I’m still using them.” Under the table, Steve grinned and squeezed Tony’s knee, leaning toward him. “Eat something. You’re going to need your strength later.”

Pepper coughed, choking on a pea pod. She took a swig of wine, holding up her hand to wave them off. “I’m fine, I’m fine. But ugh, TMI. You two are the worst.”

“Oh, I’m sure we could be much worse.” Tony raised his glass and winked.

“I really do not want to know. Save it for later.” After another gulp of wine, she forced a subject change. “So, Steve was telling me you might be staying in Philadelphia for a bit.”

“Nothing’s firm yet, but we’re tossing some ideas around. It’s not as though I need to be in New York to do my job.”

“I’m not saying you do. I’m just surprised, because you hadn’t mentioned it.” Pepper pushed her food around with a fork. “Lots of changes for me to catch up on.”

“Do I detect a whiff of disapproval?”

“There is no whiff here, Tony. I’m just... making conversation.” Flustered, she looked over at Steve. “Could you pass me the rice, please?”

Steve slid the carton across the table. “Tony mentioned having some business here next week, but didn’t say what it was.”

“Just a token appearance, really. Signing some papers.” Tony waved a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t tell you about it, Steve.” Her face lit up, and there was pride in her voice as she explained. “There’s a facility here doing cutting edge work with veterans with PTSD. As part of our continuing commitment to giving something back to the world, Stark Industries is investing heavily in the technology and facilities they need to take things to the next level.”

“Sounds like you’ve rehearsed that.” Tony slouched back in his chair, munching on an eggroll. He shrugged. “I didn’t want to make a big deal.”

“Obviously. You’re legendary for your humility.” She rolled her eyes at him, then smiled at Steve. “We’re finalizing the deal next week. You should come along for the announcement, if you’re free.”

“I need to check my schedule…” Steve’s voice trailed off, as he realized there was a good chance Natasha wouldn’t be back by then. He contemplated the risks of leaving Bucky unattended, even for an hour or two. Returning Pepper’s smile, he added, “But it would mean a lot to me to be there, if I can. Thank you.” 

Sheepishly, Tony squeezed Steve’s hand. “I was going to tell you. But… well, you know. Everything’s been crazy.”

“Oh, I know.” Taking a bite of his dinner, Steve lapsed into thoughtful silence. He cast an affectionate gaze at Tony. “I’m so glad I get to know this side of you.”

“What, the side that exploits charitable giving for tax purposes?”

Pepper smirked and held out her wine glass for a refill. “He got them to name the center after his mother.”

“See, there you go again, spoiling my efforts to be cool.”

“Yeah, that was definitely what just happened.” She patted Tony’s arm. “Hey, did I see a piano in the other room? You should play something. It’s been ages.”

“I’m trying to eat, here.” Tony speared a broccoli floret, waving it at her. “JARVIS, play some Dave Brubeck for the lady.”

 _Blue Rondo à la Turk_ began playing in the background. Fork in hand, Tony began drumming on the edge of his plate.

“Tony. That’s not what I requested.”

“Trust me, I’m doing you a favor. I haven’t played in a long time.” He kept drumming, adding an occasional, gentle “ting” off the rim of his wine glass.

Steve’s hand came to rest on Tony’s thigh as he purred sweetly, “What if I asked you to play something after dinner, for me?”

With a gulp, Tony dropped his fork. Shifting in his seat, he said with mock seriousness, “Fine. But you should be ashamed of yourself.”

**********

Despite how much he wanted to be alone with Steve, Tony had to admit he was glad Pepper stayed for dinner. She was like a know-it-all little sister, gleefully wielding a well-stocked arsenal of anecdotes about Tony as a playful weapon of ego destruction. Even better, she went out of her way to interact with Steve, recommending a book she’d read recently. She used it as a launching point for some well-reasoned observations about politics - a subject she usually avoided around Tony, but for some reason, felt at ease broaching with Steve.

In turn, Steve laughed at her jokes, and told a few stories of his own. He even went so far as to ask to borrow the book, so they could talk about it over coffee sometime. He seemed surprisingly at ease, frequently looking over at Tony with unbridled affection. 

With a pang, Tony couldn’t help wondering if this was what a family dinner felt like. Warmth and humor and safety and acceptance, all wrapped up in fried wonton skins. 

When they’d cleared the table and refilled their wine glasses, they went to the living room. Pepper made herself comfortable on the couch, ready for a show. Holding Tony’s hand, Steve lead him to the piano, smiling his encouragement. 

Tony reluctantly took his seat on the piano bench, flexing his hands and doing a few runs up and down the keyboard to warm up. With a gleam in his eye, he started, _“Boy, the way Glenn Miller played…”_

“Tony, no.” Pepper groaned. “Be serious.”

Steve looked back and forth at them, confused. “I like Glenn Miller, but I don’t think I’ve heard that one.” 

“I’ll explain later.” He blew a little kiss at Steve. “Alright, since my first choice was rejected… perhaps this will meet with your approval. Something sincere.”

He played a few chords, then began singing a tune Steve recognized from Tony’s top secret “You’ve Turned Me Into a Sap” playlist. 

_“What good are words I say to you?_  
_They can't convey to you what's in my heart._  
_If you could hear instead the things I've left unsaid…”_

Tony’s singing style was straightforward and focused on the lyrics. His mother liked to say a song like this didn’t need “a lot of tomfoolery.” He was no Sinatra, but she’d never raised an objection when he sang, so he assumed he passed muster.

_“I only know what I know…_  
_The passing years will show_  
_You’ve kept my love so young, so new…”_

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Steve leaning against the piano, eyes brightly beaming. Mentally, Tony patted himself on the back for choosing this song. It said everything he wanted to say right now. Everything that mattered, anyway. Anything else could wait.

_“And time after time,_  
_You’ll hear me say that I’m_  
_So lucky to be loving you.”_

He was finishing the song with a few musical doodads on the piano when Steve slid onto the bench beside him. He wrapped his arms around Tony, hugging him tightly as he murmured, “I’m the lucky one.” 

Over Steve’s shoulder, Tony could see Pepper smiling at him. He made a mental note to badger her later for the picture he was pretty sure she’d just taken. He looked at her with a helpless grin, as if to say, _“Do you get it now?”_

She chuckled softly, nodding her approval. Tucking her phone into her purse, she stood up. “This was nice. Thanks for letting me stick around for a bit.” 

“You sure you don’t want dessert? I think I saw someone brought over my favorite gelato.”

“No, no, that’s for you.”

Reluctantly extricating himself from Steve’s arms, Tony rose to hug his old friend. “Thanks, Pep. For everything. You always come through for me.”

“It was nice seeing you again. And you too, Steve.” She extended her arms toward him, inviting a quick hug. “You boys let me know if you need anything else while I’m in town. And Tony, I know you have a lot going on, but please don’t forget. Ten o’clock Monday. I’ll call you to make sure you’re up.”

“I’m just gonna walk her out, okay?” Without waiting for a response, Tony kissed Steve’s cheek, then hurried to catch up with Pepper as she made her way toward the entry.

At the elevator doors, Pepper pulled him into a quick hug, patting his back before releasing him. “You look happy. You’re happy, right?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I am. We’re still navigating a few bumps in the road, but that’s life.” 

“I just don’t want you getting hurt again, that’s all.” She looked over her shoulder, then dropped her voice. “I can’t help that I feel protective of you. You’re like a much, much, much older brother to me.”

“I think that was about three too many _muches_.” Tony narrowed his eyes at her, then hit the elevator button. “Didn’t you say you had somewhere to be?”

“No need to push me out the door, I can take a hint.” Pepper stepped toward the door, then said over her shoulder, “But at least you didn’t _feign a headache_.”

“Hmm?” Tony blinked. He knew he was busted, but couldn’t help himself.

“Oh, come on. I heard you in the kitchen. You’re not as quiet as you think you are.” The doors slid open and she stepped into the elevator, trying not to crack a smile. “Honestly. Go make out with your boyfriend, already.”

Attempting something resembling contrition, Tony ducked his head. “I’m a terrible person. I know. I’m sorry about that.” 

“You’re not sorry at all.”

“No, I’m not, but it was worth a try. Hey, wait.” Tony caught the door, leaning against it to hold it open. “Listen… there’s some… Avengers stuff going on right now.”

“Of course there is.” Her lips pressed together in a disapproving line. “God, Tony. Am I involved now, by being here?”

“No, no, I know you hate all of that stuff. I wouldn’t do that to you. But the thing is, I’m trying to keep a low profile for the time being. Specifically… nobody knows I own this building. If we could keep it that way…?” 

“I think I can manage that.” She pressed the button for the first floor. “Go eat your gelato. And try to stay out of trouble, at least for the next few days. Think you can manage that?”

Shrugging noncommittally, Tony stepped back, allowing the doors to close. “One day at a time.”

**********

“So, about that gelato…”

Steve was crouched down by the refrigerator, sorting some of the groceries into a bag, along with the containers of leftover Chinese food. He looked up as Tony approached. “Hey. I was thinking Bucky might like some dinner.”

“Sure. Do you want me to come with you, or...?”

After some hesitation, Steve said, “Would it be okay if I went alone this time? I kind of wanted to, ah…”

“You want to make sure he’s okay with this, without me hovering.” Tony tilted his head to one side, considering it for a moment. He nodded philosophically. “That’s fair.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to think I’m trying to pull something.”

“C’mere. I can’t talk to you when you’re at eye level with my fly. Too distracting.” Tony reached for Steve’s hands, pulling him to his feet. “So… here’s what I’m thinking. If we’re going to work on what went wrong between us, I think it starts here, with us choosing to trust one another. Trust isn’t a feeling - it’s an action, a choice we can make. We can do that, right? Both of us?”

“Yeah. We can do that, Tony.” A slow smile spread over Steve’s face. “You and me.”

**********

“I hope you’re in the mood for slightly cold Chinese food.”

Eagerly, Bucky rubbed his hands together. “Hand it over, pal. I’m starved.” 

Glancing at the tv, Steve pulled out the boxes of leftovers, setting them on the coffee table. “What the heck are you watching?”

“Some food show. This guy drives around in an old red convertible. And when I say old, I mean even older than your boyfriend.”

“Hey, technically, he’s several decades younger than either one of us.”

“Whatever.” Bucky dumped what was left of one container into a half-empty box of rice, stirring it with a pair of chopsticks as he talked. “Anyway, when this nutball ain’t drivin’ to Flavortown, he puts his sunglasses on the wrong side of his head and rubs greasy food all over his face.”

“Glad you’re using this time to focus on educational programming. Is it almost over?”

“Not even close. I guess they’re runnin’ a bunch of ‘em back to back this weekend.” He chewed contemplatively as the host loudly moaned around a mouthful of food. Pointing his chopsticks toward the tv, he asked, “Think Nat’d still want me if I had hair like that?”

“I’m not saying she’d break up with you over it, but…” Steve grimaced and shrugged broadly. 

“I think he’s heading to Memphis next. You wanna sit down and watch this guy eat ribs?”

“Maybe for a few minutes. I should put this other stuff away first.” Steve went to the kitchen, putting the perishables in the refrigerator, and neatly organizing the remaining grocery items in the cupboard. He felt better, just seeing that everything felt homey and relatively normal, despite the locks on the doors. “There’s some oatmeal in here for tomorrow morning. And a bunch of snacks and stuff for sandwiches.”

“Thanks, Ma.”

Tousling Bucky’s hair as he joined him on the couch, Steve blinked at the ongoing spectacle on the television. He didn’t know quite what to make of it, but Bucky seemed to be entertained. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a message from Pepper. _‘What a lovely evening. Let’s do this again soon.’_

The text message was followed by a picture of them, hugging on the piano bench. Tony’s eyes were closed, and he was smiling over Steve’s shoulder as they embraced. He looked so happy. 

Feeling a rush of warmth, Steve forwarded the picture to Tony. _‘Did you know you look this cute when you’re getting hugged?’_

_‘Wait, I’m in that picture? All I saw was your ass.’_

_‘Want to see more of it?’_

_‘Short answer? Yes. Come here if you want the long answer.’_

“You know you get a goofy look on your face when you’re messaging him, right?” Bucky was polishing off the last of the egg rolls, smirking at Steve. “I get it now. I do.”

A little embarrassed, Steve set his phone down between them. “What?”

“I mean, I never really got to see this side of things, you know? You two had it out that night, and then you spent the next month acting like someone had cut out one of your kidneys.”

“Gross.”

“Yeah, it was pretty gross.” Bucky shoved Steve’s arm companionably. “You’re okay now, though, right?”

“Still got both my kidneys.”

“That’s a relief, anyway.”

“You got that right.” Steve chuckled to himself. “What about you? I mean, are you really okay with all this? You seem surprisingly okay.”

“Imagine if they got to me somehow, and set me off. I got more than enough guilt already.” Bucky stretched his legs out in front of him, resting his feet on the coffee table. He looked around the room appreciatively. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life locked up in Stark’s basement. But right now? I feel safe, being here. They can’t get to me, and I can’t get to anyone else.”

“I just want you to be okay.”

“Thanks, pal. I’m alright. I’ll be better when I know Natasha’s back.”

“Soon as I hear anything, you’ll know it.” Steve glanced at the clock on the wall, and stood to go. He made a show of yawning on his way to the door. “Hope you don’t mind, but I’m kinda tired. I think I’m gonna call it a day.”

“Uh huh. You don’t have to use euphemisms with me. I know what you’re about, and it ain’t sleepin’.”

Blushing, Steve laughed as he reached for the biometric scanner. “You got me. But jeez, Buck, you couldn’t just play dumb?”

“Nope. Oh, hey. Knucklehead.” Bucky leapt up and brought his phone to him. “You almost forgot this.

“Thanks, buddy.” Steve slipped it into his pocket and stepped into the hall. “G’night.”

His phone buzzed as the door closed behind him.

_‘Please tell me Barnes didn’t give you a makeover.’_

“Huh?” Steve scrolled up to see a message sent to Tony from his phone.

_‘Would you still love me if I had Guy Fieri’s hair?’_

“You’re real funny, Buck.”

Just on the other side of the door, he heard a snicker and a muffled, “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few random things...  
> “Once more unto the breach…” is from Shakespeare’s Henry V, Act III, Scene I. It’s part of a stirring speech King Henry gives to rally his troops to return to battle. 
> 
> Nick and Nora Charles are the lead characters in The Thin Man (1934), a very stylish, humorous pre-Code mystery movie, based on a Dashiell Hammett novel. William Powell (Nick) and Myrna Loy (Nora) star as well-dressed smartasses who love booze, parties, their dog, and each other. It is A Classic with a capital C. After the Thin Man (1936) came out two months after Sarah Rogers’ death. If you haven’t watched the Thin Man movies, you should. They are snappy and fun, and some of Nora’s outfits are amazing.
> 
> “Blue Rondo à la Turk” is the opening track from Dave Brubeck’s legendary Time Out album. The most instantly-recognizable track from the album is “Take Five.” When I was in high school, I discovered my parents’ old record collection, and absconded with this one. I thought I was getting away with something, but one day, my father said, “I see you’ve discovered Dave Brubeck.” Ah, well.
> 
> The joking snippet of a song Tony starts to play is “Those Were the Days,” the theme song from 70s sitcom All in the Family. 
> 
> The song Tony actually plays after dinner is “Time After Time.” (No, not the Cyndi Lauper one.) With music by Jule Styne and charming lyrics by Sammy Cahn, it’s one of the greats of the Great American Songbook, at least in my estimation. It was introduced by Frank Sinatra in the 1947 film “It Happened in Brooklyn,” so it’s a song Steve wouldn’t have heard until he was thawed out. It’s been beautifully covered by many, many people, including a really soft, lovely version by Chet Baker. (If you want to hear a recording of it with the introductory verse I quoted in the story, Michael Feinstein does a nice job of it on The M.G.M. Album.)
> 
> I don’t know why I decided Bucky would wind up watching Guy Fieri, but once I got it in my head, it wouldn’t go away. You might say I took a hit, couldn’t shake it. Is Guy Fieri the Three Wolf Moon of this chapter? I guess? I don’t know. Headcanons are weird. YMMV.
> 
> This chapter was nearly split in half, but it didn't feel right breaking it up. Thanks for sticking with me so far! We're seriously in the home stretch now. As always, I appreciate your kind words and thoughts.


	11. So Nice To Come Home To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My massive brain turns you on, eh?” Tony bit his lip, staring into Steve’s eyes. “Did I ever tell you about the particle accelerator I built?”
> 
> “Once or twice, yeah.”
> 
> “Just checking. In case you need any... particles accelerated or anything.”

The penthouse was dark, save for the warm flickering of the fireplace, and the faint, multicolored glow of Christmas lights twinkling on the silvery tree. 

Wine glass in hand, Tony stood by a window, looking out over the park below. He felt good. Really good, goddammit. The day hadn’t gone entirely smoothly, but the bit that mattered most to him? Better than he’d dared hope. And now here he was, finishing off the last of an excellent bottle of wine with the love of his life.

_Just as soon as he comes back from visiting his buddy in the dungeon._

As quickly as the thought intruded, he dismissed it. 

_Dungeon is a little melodramatic. Try safe house. Or cozy getaway._

_...that he can’t actually get away from._

_Okay, seriously? Fuck you, Jiminy Cricket. You’re not helping._

He and Steve were back together. There was no point pretending it wasn’t the only thing that mattered tonight, at least in his own mind. He didn’t have room to concern himself with anything - or anyone - else. He wondered, briefly, if choosing to wallow in his happiness made him a selfish prick. Probably. At least a little. 

They had friends risking their lives out in the field tonight, and a brainwashed assassin locked up in the basement awaiting an experimental attempt at reprogramming. There were a million ways all of that could spiral out of control. And since worrying about it would accomplish jack shit, Tony refused to entertain those thoughts. They could try to creep in, but he was prepared to kick every damn one of them down a very long flight of stairs and shove them behind a locked door until they left him alone. He needed this moment of peace, and was willing to fight for it. If that meant the rest of the world would call him selfish, he was okay with that. It was old, familiar territory.

He took a sip of wine, then set the glass aside, focusing on the music in the background. He’d asked JARVIS to play something Steve would like, which (unsurprisingly) translated to a hell of a lot of swing and jazz standards. Before Steve came into his life, Tony mostly listened to this stuff when he was caught in the throes of nostalgia for his mother. That changed when he fell in love with a goddamn World War II hero. Frank Sinatra? Glenn Miller? Tommy Dorsey? It was all Steve’s music, and in a way, that made it Tony’s, too.

He heard footsteps in the hallway, and observed the reflection of Steve’s approach in the window. There was an untempered eagerness evident in Steve’s long stride that gratified Tony’s bruised but healing heart. 

Steve wrapped his arms around him, resting his cheek against Tony’s hair. “Miss me?”

“Silly question.” 

Tony was hesitant to ask how things went. There were so many ways a simple inquiry could be interpreted. Best case scenario, he could come across as caring and concerned. Or his questions could be misconstrued as evidence of continued insecurity, or jealousy. Humans could be weird. Even lovable, blue-eyed humans with a tendency to wear form-fitting t-shirts.

If he didn’t ask, he would definitely look like a jerk.

“I hope there was enough dinner left for Barnes. Did he mention anything he might need while he’s, er, visiting?” 

“He didn’t mention anything.” Steve shook his head. “He seemed surprisingly relaxed, though.”

“Great.” Tony’s mouth contorted into a tight attempt at a smile that faded as quickly as it appeared.

Steve was watching him in the window, with an uncomfortably perceptive look in his eyes. He pressed a kiss to Tony’s temple. “Hey. I meant to tell you this earlier. Bucky feels bad about the way he acted today. He asked me to apologize for the stuff he said to you.” 

Tony gave a slight nod. He wasn’t sure what to say. Today’s little run-in was piddly shit, barely worth mentioning. The guy was probably sleep deprived and short on funds, and lashed out at an easy (and totally naked, and yeah, _on his couch_ ) target. Whatever. Tony was long past feeling the need to justify either his genetics or his fortune. He felt even less obligation to defend his renewed relationship with Steve. 

Besides, it was obvious the entire incident was a clumsy dance around the murdery elephant in the room. And that was something they’d have to sort out later. It wasn’t worth talking about right now. Or rather, it wasn’t what Tony wanted to talk about right now. Barnes could wait. He wasn’t going anywhere.

_Because, you know. Locked up. In the dungeon._

Tony drew a deep, steadying breath. He raised a hand to stroke Steve’s bearded jaw, his dark eyes intent on their dim mirror selves in the window. “How the hell did you wind up with a guy like me?”

“A guy like you? You mean exactly my type? But better, because you’re you?”

“Something like that, yeah.” Turning in Steve’s arms, Tony smiled up at him, his eyes alight with expectation. “I mean, what are the odds? You, being exactly my type. Me, being exactly yours.”

“I dunno, Tone, you tell me. You’re the math guy. All I know is, when you smile like that, it makes me want to kiss you here…” He brushed his lips over the laugh lines at the corners of Tony’s eyes. ”...and here.”

Tony quirked a teasing brow. “Is that a subtle way of telling me I look old?”

“Nope. I’m telling you I like seeing you happy. It’s one of my favorite things. And _this_ ,” Steve kissed the tip of Tony’s nose. “Means I think your nose is perfect. The Platonic ideal of noses.”

“Steve, I don’t know how to tell you this, but… I’m starting to think you may have a little crush on me.”

With an affectionate chuckle, he rested his forehead against Tony’s. “Yeah, you got me figured out. But then, I’m pretty sure you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s a given. _Genius_.” Tony slid his hands over Steve’s broad shoulders. The hair at the nape of Steve’s neck felt like it hadn’t been trimmed in at least a couple of months, which felt for all the world like an irresistible invitation for Tony to bury his fingers in it. 

Steve shivered at his touch and leaned closer, murmuring, “Maybe it’s a given, but it still turns me on like crazy.”

“My massive brain turns you on, eh?” Tony bit his lip, staring into Steve’s eyes. “Did I ever tell you about the particle accelerator I built?”

“Once or twice, yeah.”

“Just checking. In case you need any... particles accelerated or anything.”

“Kiss me already, genius.”

Tony didn’t need to be asked twice. Still gripping a handful of Steve’s hair, he pulled him into a slow but thorough kiss. Even after their little encounter on Barnes’ hideous couch, Tony felt as though he had an entire lifetime of pent-up hunger for Steve. Now that he had him, he had no intention of rushing things. Each breathy, appreciative moan, every stroke of Steve’s tongue in his mouth was a promise of things to come. It was a thought that crackled and blazed through Tony’s touch-starved body.

As Steve nibbled his way down Tony’s jaw to his neck, Tony clung more tightly to him, gasping softly. He felt a little lightheaded, swooning from the sudden rush of blood away from his brain. It was almost embarrassing, how viscerally he responded to Steve’s every touch. Or it would be, if he didn’t know Steve was every bit as eager for him. 

“C’mere, Tone.” With Tony’s arm still slung around his shoulders, Steve scooped him up into his arms. Shrugging off Tony’s astonished laugh, he began walking toward the bedroom. “What? I told you I had a list.”

“You did. Although, when you said you wanted to carry me to the bedroom, I thought you were being dramatic.”

“ _Dramatic_? Try romantic, pal.” 

Still laughing, Tony squinted at him. “Do you carry all your pals like this?”

“Nope. Just the ones I want to get naked with, buddy.” Steve punctuated his statement with a kiss, deftly navigating the bedroom doorway without missing a beat. He nuzzled at Tony’s neck, whispering seductively, “Just you… _bro_.”

“Ugh, _bro_ , you’ve been spending too much time with Barton,” Tony muttered as Steve lowered him to their bed. 

“He is the last thing on my mind right now.” With a surprisingly wicked grin, Steve winked at him. He shrugged off his cardigan and tossed it on the floor. He kicked his shoes in the direction of the closet, and sent his jeans and t-shirt flying toward the dresser.

Tony glanced at Steve’s feet, then caught his eye, shaking his head. “You know my feelings on the subject of socks during sexytimes.”

“Yes, as I recall, you’ve delivered several riveting dissertations on the subject, Dr. Stark.” Eyes sparkling with amusement, Steve peeled off his socks and threw them out the bedroom door, closing the door behind them with a thud. He removed Tony’s black loafers and socks, and tucked them under the edge of the bed. “Better? Not a sock in sight.”

“Get over here, you beautiful smartass.”

Wearing nothing but boxers and a grin, Steve crawled into bed. He murmured a quiet, “Hi there,” and tugged at Tony’s expensive silk tie, carefully loosening the half-Windsor knot. “I have to say… when I came back up, I kinda expected to find you naked and waiting for me by the fireplace.”

“Oh, I considered it, but I know how much you enjoy undressing me.”

The hitch in Steve’s breath served to confirm the assertion. Nodding, he pulled the loose tie free from Tony’s collar. “I like that you let me.”

“Yeah, well, I like it too.” Tony hesitated, his guileless eyes soft with affection. “I’m yours, Steve. Always have been.”

“You are.” 

It wasn’t a question, or even an assertion of possession. Steve spoke with the quiet, awestruck certainty of a man acknowledging an irrefutable truth of the universe. The moon orbits the Earth, the Earth orbits the sun, and Tony Stark’s heart belongs to Steve Rogers. Just facts.

His voice was steady and sincere as he unbuttoned Tony’s shirt. “And I’m yours, Tone. Even when we… weren’t together. Whatever you might think.” 

Resisting the constriction in his throat, Tony nodded. He was determined to believe that without reservation. Eventually.

Tenderly, Steve took Tony’s hand and kissed the palm, then held it against his own chest. “Every beat. Yours.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that.” 

“Good. ‘Cause I’m not going anywhere. I love you.”

Tony moved his hand to cradle Steve’s face, his eyes searching and serious. “So... why am I still wearing pants?”

**********

The weekend flew by in a warm, delirious haze.

They cooked together, and Tony taught Steve his “secret recipe” for spaghetti carbonara. Tony had taught him the same recipe at least a dozen times over the years, but he seemed so happy bustling about in the kitchen, Steve couldn’t resist asking him to demonstrate it again.

“I never get the egg part right, Tone.” 

“I’ve noticed. You always end up making scrambled egg spaghetti.”

“But the egg has to cook.”

“It’s cooked when I make it. It’s just not lumpy.”

Steve insisted they needed to watch _The Thin Man_ movies, so Tony indulged him. He was happy to curl up with him on the couch, drinking martinis and providing color commentary while Nick and Nora Charles solved mysteries. 

“I don’t understand this hat she’s wearing.”

“What’s to understand? It’s a hat.”

“Did you ever see a hat like that in the wild?”

“In the middle of the Great Depression? In Brooklyn?”

“Well, when you put it like that...”

When they worked out together in the fully-equipped private gym two floors down, Tony tried not to notice the way Steve’s arms bulged as his fists slammed into the punching bag. But Steve was a tease who knew he had an audience. He alternated between what Tony called “Steve’s Very Serious Punching Face” and his dopiest _aw shucks_ grin whenever he noticed Tony looking at him. 

“Hey, I don’t mind the gawking, but keep pedaling.” 

“I’m not gawking. I was making sure you were still keeping busy over there, Cap.” 

“Uh huh.” Smirking, Steve crossed the room, deliberately resting one hand on Tony’s knee as he looked at the electronic display on the bike. “I thought you wanted to get a workout in?” 

“You can’t really blame me for being distracted, with you right there being… you.” 

“I see.” Steve’s hand moved slowly up Tony’s thigh. “Well, the sooner you finish up here, the sooner you can join me in the shower.”

“Ohhh, you’re _good_.” Tony resumed pedaling, grinning appreciatively at Steve. “I’ve gotta say, this sexy-but-evil personal trainer routine is really working for me.”

They’d settled into an unspoken but mutually beneficial arrangement in which Steve would handle meal delivery duty. Tony wasn’t quite ready to engage in small talk with his parents’ murderer, and Steve felt better checking in regularly with his best friend. It kept bad feelings on all sides to a minimum, and provided Tony with necessary intervals of distraction-free time in his workshop. He’d tried to get some work done while Steve read a book, but focusing on algorithms was a challenge with Steve’s legs draped heavily over Tony’s thighs, not to mention those blue eyes peeping over the book at him every few minutes. 

Just after lunch on Sunday, while Steve was downstairs, Tony’s phone buzzed with an incoming call from Maria Hill. 

“Hey, boss. We have reason to believe Barnes was under some form of limited surveillance in recent months. Our guy may be on his way to Philadelphia, to attempt recovery.”

“What kind of surveillance are we talking about? Tracking his cell phone? Electronic devices? Gladys Kravitz peeking through the curtains?”

“Cell phone is the most likely candidate. We recovered some data from a wiped hard drive, found some indications he’d been tracking Barnes’ movements.”

“If your team’s done with that drive, I want to take a crack at it.”

“Sure. We’ve already searched Barnes’ apartment, and it’s clean. I have a team staying there, and backup in several vacant units on the block, just in case someone comes sniffing around.”

“Excellent. Send over everything you’ve got on this. And hey, if Barton wants to make himself useful, tell him to get his ass to Philadelphia early tomorrow morning. I may need his eyes on a situation.”

“Do I want to know what the situation is?”

“A little meet and greet Pepper talked me into doing. Show up, shake some hands, say a few words, be handsome and charming. The usual. I’m sending over the details right now.”

“You think our guy’ll show up at this thing?”

“No, not really. I just don’t want to take any unnecessary risks right now. There’ll be security there, but… Barton has solid instincts. With everything going on, I wouldn’t mind having him on hand.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“Absolutely not.”

**********

With nothing to do but wait for someone to unlock the door, it was easy to lose track of time.

There was some kind of tricky lighting in this room that subtly gave the impression of the passage of time, from day into evening. It had to be the product of one of Stark’s little gadgets. It galled Bucky to give him credit for anything other than being a pompous ass with a lot of money. Okay, so the guy was a genius, fine. He’d used his genius brain to invent all kinds of weapons and jets and equipment for the Avengers, and in his spare time, he’d built himself a pretty deluxe, secret bomb shelter with nifty self-dimming lights. It wasn’t gonna end world hunger or anything, but it was undeniably cool. Even if that deluxe bomb shelter was currently being used as a makeshift jail cell, it was a jail cell with simulated daylight.

Other than an occasional trip to the bathroom, Bucky hadn’t moved much. There wasn’t any point. He’d grabbed pillows and blankets from the other room, and made a nest for himself on the couch. The tv was still tuned to a marathon of the world’s greasiest foods, although the tv was mostly background noise at this point. Bucky was pretty sure he’d seen every possible way to serve a hamburger, and was torn between craving one and swearing them off for life. But there wasn’t really anything else worth watching, and when he turned the tv off, the silence made the room seem small, stale, and claustrophobic. 

He’d started reading the books Stark left for him. It was a surprising mix of novels and nonfiction, some of which he’d already read, and some of which was new to him. He’d zipped through a handful of novels already, and was working his way through a thick book about space. On the back cover, there was a picture of the author wearing a corduroy blazer; and on the title page, an inscription in neat penmanship. _“For my young friend Tony. May your curiosity carry you far, in joyful exploration of our vast and marvelous Cosmos. Warmest regards, Carl Sagan.”_ Bucky suspected he was supposed to be impressed that Stark had an autographed first edition copy of this book lying around. He’d said as much to Steve when he stopped by earlier in the evening. 

“Oh come on, Buck. He doesn’t need to try to impress you.”

“Doesn’t he?”

“He grew up with this stuff. It’s all normal to him. It’d be like trying to impress you with the mattresses he buys.”

“Did Carl Sagan make his mattresses, too?”

Steve looked at him. It was one of those looks he’d been giving him since their days in Brooklyn. The _“listen, asshole...”_ look. Flatly, he asked, “Are you enjoying the book?”

“Yeah, sure I am. This Sagan guy had a real way with words.”

“So what are you complaining about?”

“I’m just sayin’ I get the feeling your boyfriend is taking every opportunity to remind me how important he is.”

There was no use in trying to persuade Steve any further. The poor sap was a hundred percent goofy over his billionaire boyfriend. Either Stark was an incredible con artist, or somewhere, buried under all the wealth and smartass bullshit, there was an actual human being. Natasha, like Steve, seemed convinced of the latter. And unlike Steve, she wasn’t biased by Stark’s apparently amazing dick. 

No, Nat was as clear-headed as a person could be, but she liked Stark. Respected him, even. It was a goddamn mystery. Maybe when she was back, she’d find the words to explain it in a way that made sense. Or maybe it’d never make a damn bit of sense. The way Bucky figured it, the world would keep turning just fine with or without his approval of Howard Stark’s precocious baby boy. 

He was prepared to reconsider, if Stark could really fix what HYDRA had done to him. But he wasn’t holding his breath. Hope was too precious a commodity to spare on Stark or his amazing toys. What little he could muster now was entirely Natalia’s doing. She’d somehow given him a piece of his humanity he’d thought lost forever. For now, the fragile spark of hope in his heart was fixated on thoughts of building a life with her; just the two of them, disappearing into blessed obscurity together, maybe out West. Someplace big and open and empty, where he could scream at the mountains, howl at the moon, and maybe, if he was lucky, dance under the stars with the woman he loved. 

Even as he thought it, memories of searing pain ripped through his body. Flashes of powerful men’s faces appeared in his mind, laughingly dismissing it as a fucking fairy tale. He belonged to them. There was no escape.

**********

Sleep didn’t come easily for Tony; not even now, with Steve curled up beside him, breathing the rhythmic, gentle breath of what sounded like contented sleep. Tony envied his ability to sleep through the night.

Tomorrow was a big day. Professionally, it had the potential to be one of the most important things he’d ever done with the fortune and influence he’d amassed over the years. After decades of weapons manufacturing, a new investment in technology that could bring healing to wounded soldiers felt like a step in the right direction. He’d written a brief speech for the occasion, delicately hinting at the idea of redemption for past transgressions, without explicitly saying so. Making amends had been the subtext in his life story for close to a decade now, even as he told himself he’d always done the best he could with the life he’d been given. That was easier during the day, when he was busy.

The trouble was in convincing his mind to take a damn break at bedtime. Every night, in addition to a lifetime of mistakes and missteps to rethink, there was a seemingly endless stream of equations that needed work, a replay of conversations he still hadn’t processed, and the occasional reminder that everything they’d been working on was hanging by a thread.  
Sometimes, it helped to get up and work for a bit. He could do that now, but that would mean hefting Steve’s encircling arm out of the way. And getting dressed. No, better to stay put. Sleepless hours spent wrapped up in his beloved’s arms were preferable to anything else he could accomplish with the time. Unless he had a really brilliant idea. And at the moment, it wasn’t that his thoughts were particularly brilliant; they were just noisy.

He had a nagging feeling he was missing something important. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was there, just out of reach, like a dream escaping waking thought. The harder he tried to chase it, the more tenuous his grasp on… whatever it was. It irritated the hell out of him. 

His mind drifted to the adjustments needed to make BARF to work for Barnes. When he first developed the technology, Tony intended to use it to process a potent cocktail of his personal grief and issues with Howard, all heavily spiked with the lingering guilt he felt over his own failings. It was all too close to him to allow for the objectivity required of good science.

But with Barnes, he was going in to remove something that had been imposed on the guy, something that violated his will and his mind. Like a parasite of sorts, that forced him to commit heinous acts. If they could find the book, it would provide a shortcut to the parasite, so they wouldn’t waste time on unaffected parts of his brain. They could get in, get it out, and let him get on with the rest of his life.

In theory, anyway.

There couldn’t be absolute certainty, because this was the human mind. But he was as close to certain as he could be. 

Tony had already considered the possibility that they wouldn’t find the book. In that case, he was working on a subroutine that would find the triggers in his mind. It would take longer, but he already had some tests he wanted to run to get baseline readings, in an attempt to calibrate the programming for Barnes. Maybe they could get started on that in the next few days, to jump-start what could be a drawn-out process.

He was so lost in thought, he didn’t even fully register that he’d thrown the blankets aside, until Steve’s voice cut through the darkness.

“Tony. It’s three in the morning. Where are you going?”

He cast a quick glance at the clock. “Technically, it’s about two minutes til three.”

“Cute, but pedantic. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“I know. I’ve been lying here waiting for you to relax.”

“So I’m keeping you up, too? All the more reason for me to go to the lab, and let you sleep.”

“Tone. Talk to me. What’s on your mind?” Steve reached for him, interlacing their fingers. “Please?”

Relenting, Tony allowed Steve to pull him back into bed. He sighed quietly as Steve’s arms wrapped around him. “Just thinking about BARF.”

“Uh…”

“The brain thing, Steve. For Barnes.”

“Right.”

“I have some ideas about altering the programming. I was just gonna make some notes. Maybe see if he’s awake and interested in donating his brain to science, at least for an hour or two.”

“He’s probably sleeping. That’s what most people do at three in the morning.”

Craning his neck to see the clock, Tony shrugged. Close enough. He burrowed a little closer to Steve and wrapped an arm over his torso. “There you go, being reasonable again.”

“I try.” Steve’s voice was softly hypnotic. His hand moved in gentle, soothing circles over Tony’s back as he began humming something Tony couldn’t place, presumably an old timey tune popular in Brooklyn in about 1938. It was nice. It felt like home, and happiness, and real, honest-to-goodness love. And maybe it felt a bit like something he didn’t really believe he deserved, even as he strove valiantly to tell himself otherwise.

“What if I can’t make it work?” The words slipped almost inaudibly out of Tony’s mouth, a terrified, shame-filled confession made on impulse. And now they were out there, and he couldn’t take them back. 

Steve stopped humming. “Make what work?”

“Barnes.” In the dim blue light of the arc reactor, Tony’s eyes were wide with anxiety. “What if I can’t fix him?”

“You’ll figure it out."

“No, Steve. I mean it. What if I can’t? What if no-one can?”

There was an agonizingly long moment of silence. 

“I dunno, Tone. But you’re the best chance he’s got.”

Abruptly, Tony rolled over, facing away from Steve’s optimistic gaze. He tugged the blankets up under his chin, cloaking his self-loathing in darkness. “I hope you’re wrong about that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Racing the clock to post one last chapter in 2017! Whew!
> 
> Brief notes about this chapter:  
> If you haven't watched the Thin Man movies yet, get to it! They're so cute! The hat reference could seriously be about any number of hats Nora wore in the movies. She had some highly impractical hats, and outfits, and I love them all. 
> 
> Gladys Kravitz is the nosy neighbor on the 60s-70s tv series, Bewitched.
> 
> I am absolutely convinced young Tony Stark, a science and math prodigy who built his first circuit board at the age of four, and would have been about ten when Cosmos (the book and the tv series) first came out, would have met Carl Sagan at some point. It only stands to reason he'd have an autographed copy of the book. Don't question it.
> 
> I've had a list of song lyrics and/or titles in my mind, which are being added to the chapters retroactively. Going forward, I'll include the chapter titles as they post.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who's been reading, and putting up with long gaps between chapters! I may have a few too many irons in the fire, but this story is still very much in the works. More to come soon! HAPPY NEW YEAR!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Three Wolf Buck (Commissioned fanart for The Philadelphia Stony)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11017551) by [juniperhoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniperhoot/pseuds/juniperhoot)




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